Chase the Sunrise
by MercurialInK
Summary: Harry didn't appreciate the Founders dumping another war on him, not with his magic on the fritz and an entire ministry trying to hunt him down. Not to mention the sadistic bookworm out for his blood. He knew he should have slept in today.
1. Prologue

A History of Magic – Prologue

**Ladies and gentlemen, I am re-writing this story. I mean, not many people probably care, as this isn't a well-trafficked story, but hey; I write for me. **

**Oh, and just so we're clear, all my warnings still stand. This story is M for a damn good reason. You can see the full list of warnings on my profile.**

**Have a great day!**

**…**

It was May, a month for spring, and yet the world was still in the grip of vicious winter storms.

The storm screamed with rage outside the window, howling its defiance against the glass – a poor defense against such a power.

It had been raining for three days, and the woman there was getting worried. She had been looking for something – anything - that might save her world, or at least give them more time.

_We faced these demons once before, _the woman thought angrily. _We can do it again. The Founders could do it – so can we. _

The records were supposed to be here. But as she looked and found nothing, the woman found her faith waning and her frustration growing.

She was on her way downstairs – she wanted to check the lower levels again. Something nagged her about those corridors. She just _knew _it was down here, despite all proof to the contrary.

She was standing there now, her lantern sending shadows dancing along the walls. After a few muttered spells yielded nothing (for the fiftieth time in the past few hours), inspiration struck.

If there was a secret passage down here, she could find it easily enough. The woman pulled a box out of her robes and smirked. Oh, Lucius Malfoy would _love _to find out where his missing cigars had gone. She lit the cigar, inhaling.

She didn't love smoking, but under the circumstances… She could deal. Slowly, she walked around the room as she had seen a detective do in a muggle movie, blowing smoke into crevices, to see if any of it was escaping. She went around the room twice, before convincing herself that there were no passages in the walls.

_Well, damn, _she thought to herself as a distant boom of thunder sounded.

The heady smell of cigar smoke lurked in the air now, and the woman sighed. More time wasted. She was going to have to give up the search and find a new lead. She had been so sure…

A creak.

The woman paused.

The floor.

She lit another cigar, and got down on her hands and knees. She watched intently as she worked her way across the wooden floor. Could it be a false floor? Excitement pounded in her chest.

_Lets not get too carried away with ourselves, _the woman thought crossly, and almost missed the stream of smoke that seemed to vanish, right into the floor.

_Or not, _she grinned, and drew her wand again. She wasn't ready to bother with finding trap doors or locking mechanisms. She just checked to see if the door was warded before she blasted the wood off the top.

The passageway underneath was round and tight, just big enough for the woman to fit through. There was a ladder leading down into the darkness.

_What is with the Founders and hiding stuff underground? _The woman grumbled. She had no dear love of tight spaces. She picked up her lantern however, and followed the ladder down.

And down.

And down.

And down.

She didn't know how far she went. Very deep underground was her guess. She supposed this must have taken a lot of magic to carve out of the solid rock – and she hoped to every god she knew that this wasn't going to lead her to a dead end. Again.

She had been searching for weeks, and she had been so sure this castle held the answers.

_Well, we shall see, _she thought grimly.

Time clicked by. If there had been an actual candle in the lantern, the woman might have been able to accurately measure how much time she had been climbing, but it was a magical light, not a true flame.

Finally, her feet hit solid ground.

The woman lifted her lantern, and found herself facing another passageway. Certainly, the person who had made this tunnel had not wanted anyone to reach the end. At some point, there had been water here, because the woman could see the traces of calcium along the sides of the walls. No water remained, however, and the floor and walls were all perfectly dry.

This passage was much shorter than her climb, however, and the woman found herself in a large circular room. Shelves with glass coverings lined the walls, protecting a future of books, and there was a desk in the center. A few books were scattered, open on the desk, almost as if the occupant would return any second. The only thing that told her how much time had past was the dust that lay everywhere. A twisting metal staircase facing her led to a second level of shelves. Looking up, the woman saw a third, and a fourth.

"Wow," she whispered.

There was a letter open on the desk. A nearly blank parchment lay beside it, as if the person who had sat here was trying to compose a reply. The woman sank into the chair next to the desk to read.

_My dear lady,_

_Your luck is most unhappy, and my heart is saddened to hear of your misfortune. Do not loose heart, child. These are hard times, I understand, but I have no answers for you. I will say simply this:_

_The weight of history lays more heavily on some than on others. _

_For a few people, this is because their very nature places them in a position that is automatically influential, like Merlin. The boy wanted nothing to do with power, or even magic at all, and yet he was born with quite staggering natural gifts, and was given a destiny that was known throughout time – predicted before his birth, and remembered after his death. Merlin did what he did because he had to. He hated his destiny. He loathed it. He wore it well, but when we greeted each other, he was… relieved to be rid of it. He did what he had to, no more and no less._

_In other cases, this is because someone takes that burden upon their own shoulders. You doubtless know a man named Ghandi who led his entire nation in peaceful resistance against occupation. He did not hold a place of reverence with his people because he was born into that position. The flag of his people does not bear his coat of arms because that is how it was meant to be. Rather, he chose to write history for himself._

_And there are some who are born into positions of influence, and use it to every advantage they can. _

_For example, on a cold winter's day, four powerful souls met in a tavern to swear over tankards of mead and cider that they would change the world._

_You know to whom I refer._

_I remember that day well._

_The year was 1328. The Hundred Year's War was almost upon Europe. France and England were soon to become entangled in a conflict that would almost destroy France, and that would beggar England for another century. _

_The brewing conflict would result in not only a hundred years worth of warfare between the two, but the beginning of a series of peasant revolts that would forever end the idea of a serf in Western Europe not a century after the end of the war. _

_The Roman Empire, which would set the standard for every conqueror from Napoleon to Hitler, had been reduced to little more than a blip on the map, surrounding Constantinople, the capitol of the Byzantine Empire. Russia was already taking upon itself the title of Holy Mother Russia, foreseeing the fall of the Byzantine Empire as the defender of the Eastern Orthodox Christian faith._

_The Black Death had reached its peak, and had devoured almost a third of Europe, including the armies of the four Founders, which had marched for the very first time not months before. The whole land was in turmoil. Three of the four Founders were recovering from their own battles with the plague._

_In this setting, did the four young Founders find themselves. Godric and Salazar were generals of an army that would soon conquer all of Europe, uniting the magical populace of the land. They had no footsoldiers and no cavalry – their soldiers were magicians and magical creatues. Their battles took place at night, away from the prying eyes of non-magical folk, and their weapons were not swords, but wands and staffs, incantations and potions. _

_The four could be no more different if they tried, and yet they all shared three very distinctive traits:_

_The first is that all four were immensely powerful in their own way._

_The second was that all four had suffered greatly in their lifetimes._

_And the third was a secret, once that none ever shared, save for Helga Hufflepuff. She told a monk at her deathbed. She confessed their collective sin to me, and I understood that the other three had confided in her alone, and no one else. We are the only two – and now you the third – mortals who know this of the Founders. All four of them attempted suicide at some time in their lives._

_I am sure God forgave them all their shortcomings, given what they suffered, and what they did for us all. _

_They lived in the worst of times, but because of their nature, they overcame the horror that they were forced to live through, and the world was better for it._

_I salute them, as I salute your courage. Perhaps their story will help you find your answers – your fabulous library should be able to tell you something about that! I believe I read about it in one of the biographies… they begin to run together after a while. _

_Be brave, dear one. I shall write you again someday. _

_Your brother,_

_Jamison Greenling_

The woman smiled.

She had been right – it was here after all.

Perhaps their world wasn't doomed after all.

_I did it Harry, _she thought triumphantly. _We can beat this! We can._

Thunder and lightning crashed outside, but whether that was in either contradiction or agreement, nobody knew to say.

Then again, it could have just been a coincidence.

The woman settled herself in to read, her eyes burning with a new determination.

...

**Be nice and review?**

**~InK**


	2. Lost

A History of Magic – Lost

**I'm doing quite a bit of rewriting, so please bear with me. I began this story a year ago with no real direction, and now that I know the kind of story I want to write, I'm just making sure I have everything down the way I want it. **

**Is it weird and twisted for me to tell you all to enjoy this story? Nevermind, don't answer that. ;)**

…

"_Last scene of all,_

_That ends this strange eventful history,_

_Is second childishness and mere oblivion,_

_Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."_

_~William Shakespeare_

_….._

Ricardus Slytherin tapped his chin thoughtfully, a small smile forming at the edges of his mouth. He checked it, however, knowing how crucial these last few hours would be in his plans.

And Ricardus did not intend to fail a second time in securing his brothers' estates and titles for himself. His first attempt – oh, how close had he been, with their father newly dead, Scorpius returned all but broken from defending the Byzantine borders – he had been so close, until that wretch of a boy, Salazar had been born.

Of course the child _would _be a prodigy: he was only ten and he was fully controlling his magic. Worse still, _he could talk to snakes._

Meanwhile, Ricardus thought angrily, his hand curling into a fist, _his _wife had produced nothing but three measly, underbred females, all of them squibs.

No matter, however. He had waited five years before Salazar was born. Nine more years of patient waiting had brought him what he wanted; the accidental deaths of both Scorpius Slytherin, the head of the Slytherin estate and his wife Ursula. Only the child remained, and not for long. Ricardus had been only too delighted to take his brother's son into his care after the death of the young boy's father.

Killing the boy now probably would have been easier and safer, but Ricardus felt his solution more elegant. Besides, people would begin to suspect if Scorpius and his wife and son all died mysterious and tragic deaths. Or perhaps not. People could be stupid that way. But Ricardus didn't want to take chances – the Slytherins were all but royalty, and he didn't want to endanger his claim to the inheritance.

As it was, women died in childbirth all the time, like poor Ursula. Scorpius, as far as most were concerned, had been asking for death by the time he served his ninth year as an officer. It was the opinion of many that the death of his wife had broken Scorpius entirely, though none were brave enough to say it to his face.

Salazar, he was widely loved and pitied because he grew up with neither father nor mother, loud and proud, and entirely too full of temper, but people liked his brashness, when it wasn't turned on them. Killing him would be far too heavy handed.

Ricardus reminded himself that by this time tomorrow, he would be lord over all that which he had sought to control for over a decade.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in!" he called.

In walked Salazar, escorted by two guards wearing the green and silver livery of his fathers' service, though they now officially answered to Ricardus. They were part of his inner circle that knew the great secret the family of Slytherin had to protect, and were thus placed at doors to guard against sensitive information being eavesdropped on. However, like today, they served other uses than deterring eavesdroppers.

The boy was already tall for his age, yet somehow lacking in the awkwardness tall boys tended to carry. His hair was black and curling, like his fathers had been, and it hung elegantly around his shoulders in the fashion of the day. He stood upright and firm, his dark eyes flashing with fury.

"What is the meaning of this, uncle?" Salazar asked. His voice didn't even tremble a little.

_Arrogant puppy, _Ricardus thought viciously. But he plastered a sympathetic smile on his lips.

"The meaning of what, child?" he asked innocently. Salazar's scowl deepened with the word child, but he pressed on.

"Not even one call of the watch ago, I received news that it was your intention to remove me from your care, and place me under that of a mental institution, with the intent of seizing my father's holdings," Salazar snapped. The accusation hung in the air for several seconds, and Ricardus thought he saw something like victory pass over the young boy's face. The boy thought he had foiled him! Ricardus could have laughed.

"You are perfectly correct," he said. "I do intend to release you to the care of a state mental ward by the end of the day."

"Do you think me insane?" Salazar asked, his voice deathly quiet. "Or merely simple, or stupid, as _you _are?" He yelled the last phrase as an accusation. "Did you think I would not see your actions? From the day of my birth, you plotted for my father's estates. You may continue to plot all you like, but _I _intend to see you hang for your crimes."

"Young Salazar, you speak to snakes, do you not?" Ricardus asked.

"I am hardly the first in our family to do so," the boy sneered. "Though I notice _you_ seem to have been passed over when the gods were handing out talent."

"You claim the ability to speak to a non-sentient being," Ricardus said. "You also claim the ability to alter nature itself, using words in some gibberish language – probably speaking in tongues, possessed by some devil…"

"What is this?" Salazar demanded. "You yourself envied the power of my father, you carry a wand and use magic as do-"

"In fact, you are probably very lucky that you are merely going to bedlam, instead of being burned at the stake," Ricardus continued, ignoring the boy's outburst and enjoying the fear and uncertainty that suddenly played across his face.

"You _will _pay for this, uncle," Salazar growled. "Even if I never extract my revenge, god sits in judgment of you, and he will find you wanting!"

Salazar turned to sweep out of the room, but the two guards blocked his way.

"Allow me to pass," he said, his voice filled with all the iron command of a noble of his status, if not his age.

"You shall find, Salazar, that you are no longer master in this, or any household," Ricardus said. He could hardly contain the urge to laugh at the outrage that passed over his nephews' face.

"You will pay for this," Salazar promised, drawing his wand.

Before he could utter the spell that would end his hated uncle's life, however, Salazar found himself pulled into a headlock from behind. His wand cluttered to the expensive carpet covering the floor. He kicked out against the guard, but his slight frame was only a disadvantage against a stronger and larger opponent. He felt himself being relieved of his dagger and sword, and he was dropped to the floor.

Gasping for breath, Salazar saw his wand lying close in front of him. He stretched out a hand to grab it, to curse the traitor, but Ricardus was faster. His boot came crashing down over the stick of wood.

"Fourteen inches, willow and phoenix feather, wasn't it?" Ricardus asked. Salazar bit back the tears that stung his eyes at the sight of his destroyed wand.

He was _nothing. Nothing. _What was a wizard without his magic? Without his wand?

_I am a member of the ancient and noble house of Slytherin! _He thought silently. _Father would turn over in his grave to see his line end thus._

"Willow is a bit to bendy for me, personally, Ricardus said. "I prefer mine – oak and dragon heartstring – now _that's _a wand intended for power!"

"Go to the devil," Salazar hissed, pulling himself to his feet. He would _not _grovel on the floor like a dog. Ricardus chuckled.

"I expect that you shall meet him very soon, my young ward. I, however, have no intention of going to Hell until I have quite finished with my earthly business. Guards, restrain the boy until my guests arrive to remove him. He's a danger to himself, the poor child."

The last words were said with mocking contempt that make Salazar sneer right back at his uncle. The bastard.

Salazar did not attempt to fight the guards that grabbed hold of him on either side, escorting him from the room. He would, at least, comport himself with dignity.

He was not escorted back to his rooms. Instead, Salazar was brought to a small chamber off the main hall. It was Spartan in appearance, full of grey stone, with nothing but a chair and a writing desk. He was pushed in, and heard the click of a lock behind him.

Salazar was left to contemplate his fate. He cast his eyes around the room, but it was quite clear very soon that he was not going to get out without breaking down the door and attacking the two guards beyond.

Perhaps he could escape while being transported? His estate (rightly and by every letter of the law, _his_ estate) was surrounded by a watery fen. It was difficult to navigate, even for those who knew it well, and he might be able to lead his captors astray long enough to slip away.

_And what then? _Salazar thought with a pang of despair. What could he do? Even if he escaped, he could no longer go home. He would be homeless, and, if his uncle ever found him, dead. He knew his reputation was the only reason he wasn't dead already.

Stripped of his titles, his magic, and assumed insane, what could he do? What would his father have done in a similar situation?

But it was no good to ask that, because Salazar had hardly known his father. The man had been broken by his long stint defending the borders of the Byzantine Empire, which was quickly crumbling between the Germanic Tribes to the north and east, and the Ottomans to the south and west. The loss of his wife had completed his despair, and Salazar was sure that only the thought of his families honor kept his father from taking his own life.

Unable to arrive at any kind of resolution, Salazar sat back and waited for events to unfold, hoping to capitalize on any advantage he was given. He heard the watch call out on the hour twice before the lock clicked, and the door opened.

"This is the boy?" a clinical voice asked.

"Yes, the poor child," Salazar felt his whole body tense at his uncle's voice. "He hasn't been right since his father, you know. Horrible nightmares, sees everyone as an enemy, and he's even speaking in tongues. He's more a danger to himself than anyone else at this point."

"We've seen the like," the clinical voice said with a hint of sympathy, and two men entered the room. They wore all white, and they carried between them leather wrist and leg restraints.

Salazar felt his stomach turn. He backed against the opposite wall, hating himself for his cowardice, hating himself for knowing he would fight like a possessed man rather than be restrained such. He saw his uncle's grinning face over the shoulder of the man on the right, and he recoiled in revulsion.

"They're for your own good, son," one of the men in white said. Salazar shook his head irrationally.

"We can do this easily, or you can fight, but the result will be the same," the other man added.

"I am not crazy!" Salazar cried out, dodging away from those horrible restraints.

"Mayhap you just need a rest, but you're doing more harm than good right now," one of the men said. The two jumped Salazar as one, pinning him to the floor.

Salazar howled with rage, fear, the threat of violence. He thrashed like a mad dog, knowing he was making a scene, knowing he was merely pleasing his uncle, but there was nothing he could do to stop it – every fiber of his being rebelled against those restraints that closed around his wrists and ankles, binding them together. Something was shoved between his teeth, silencing his screams _(and stopping me from biting off my tongue, _Salazar thought incredulously_)._

"Easy does it lad," one of the men said, stroking his head. "You're alright."

Salazar tried to scream, to fight, but he was easily picked up and carried from his home, like a parcel.

_Like trash, _he thought indignantly, the image of his uncle's laughing face burning in his mind.

_I will kill you, Ricardus Slytherin. If it takes me all my life, I shall extract my revenge, _Salazar vowed viciously as he was bundled onto a litter. The gag was removed from his teeth and a vial of liquid was forced down his throat. Salazar choked on the intrusion, trying to expel whatever it was, but the men in white had already replaced the gag, and it remained in his body.

He realized that it was a drug as he felt his muscles relax against his will. His vision went fuzzy, and his last thought before being enveloped in darkness was _'I never noticed what a pretty shade of blue the sky is.'_

….

"Lady?"

The voice called me from my thoughts like a bucket of cold water dumped on my head. I sighed, looking over at my tutor, Johannes.

I suppose it's not fair to dislike the man, considering how much he does to try and educate me. But he was just so _boring. _I'm well versed in classical literature. I can speak six different languages, and I can solve mathematical equations that make most people's heads spin to even look at. I can play three different musical instruments, and I'm a skilled dancer and diplomat. I have a greater command of the six languages I know learned than many who had lived in the regions where they were natively spoken all their lives. And I'm only eleven.

Not to brag or anything, but there was very little this man had to teach me, and I learned better on my own. Still, I accepted his lessons because I enjoyed his company, and his mind was quick, and his wit engaging. He was a good tutor for a girl who needed a partner to play chess and debate with, not for a girl who needed to be taught. So I guess we were well matched.

But today… today the diplomats were coming, and all I could think of was the fact that my father may have doomed us all, and placed the house of Ravenclaw right at the center of it all. I knew when folly was being cast as wisdom, and my father was not wise in this enterprise.

"I'm sorry, Johannes, I simply cannot seem to be able to concentrate today," I said apologetically.

"Perhaps you would like to take the afternoon off, my lady?" Johannes asked delicately. "I know you want to be there when the king and queen, as well as the diplomats form Aragon arrive."

I lit up at once, knowing there was no chance of my concentration today, and I needed to prepare so that I could do my parents proud. They were both diplomats of the crown of Castile, and they were both were involved in the delicate workings of the politics that would unite two crowns under one rule, if tonight went well.

_Surely then, we would be the fiercest of all nations. Portugal would never dare challenge our rule to the sea in Africa or the New World, _I had heard my parents say often enough. My father had been a sailor before he was a diplomat, and he had married into the aristocracy. I was never able to forget it, for the gap between my father's practicality and the airs of the nobility was staggering.

My mother's people had been merchants before they were appointed to the aristocracy due to a liberal mixture of verbal skill, a talent for diplomacy, and sheer wit. They had placed a large emphasis on my education, more than any other child I knew.

I smiled broadly and thanked Johannes for the lesson, and ran upstairs to my room to change; from an early age, I had understood the effect a persons' appearance can have on the conversation at hand. I chose a dress of deep blue, with copper lacing to complement it, partly because, as my families colors, they were most appropriate for a diplomatic meeting of this sort, and party because I was vain enough to know that I was quite comely, and the blue dress accented that: the color drew out an even more vivid color from my eyes. My hair I left to hang down in its natural sloping curls of dark amber.

Thus dressed, I hurried downstairs to meet my mother. We were less than half an hour's ride form the palace, which placed us very conveniently to arrange the talks. They would adjourn to the palace tomorrow, but custom dictated that the ambassadors of their majesties of Aragon, and our own monarchs meet at a 'neutral' location.

"You look lovely Rowena," my mother said when I greeted her. I bowed my head in thanks, and smiled.

Nobles were already gathering to witness the first day of the talks. I was caught up in the discussion of politics around me, listening intently, rather than participating. I wanted to know whether we had the support of the nobility on both sides, and I wasn't likely to get noticed.

What I heard was not comforting, thought I felt very vindicated that they were confirming my own theories.

Within half an hour, I returned to my mother's side. My father stood next to her, looking impressive in the Ravenclaw colors.

"What have you gleaned of the discussion?" My father asked me.

"I have said it before, and I shall say it again father," I said very firmly "This would seem the venture of fools. All the diplomacy in the world cannot call enough nobles to our side for popular support. Neither country is stable enough to support unification, and the nobles don't like Alfonso XI. He places too much of a short leash on them. Aragon too has little love for us, considering how long we have been fighting over matters at sea."

"And since when has my daughter become a skeptic?" My father asked, trying to sound severe even though he was chuckling.

"Since you taught be to be one," I said defiantly, raising my chin.

"Then you have been lax in studying your lessons," he said, all joking forgotten. "I have taught you that with the proper preparation, and the right knowledge, one can twist any odds in their favor."

"Wit beyond measure is a mans' greatest treasure," I quoted, using one of my fathers' favorite sayings. "That doesn't make this out to _not _be venture of fools," I muttered under my breath.

"We shall see Rowena, will we not? Look! The royal envoy and the diplomats from Aragon are arriving!"

My first ever sight of King Alfonso XI and his wife Constanza Manuel of Castile was impressive. For all that I had heard that the king was ruthless and dominating, I had never seen a man with a presence quite like his before. He had red hair, and light enough skin, but the sharp lines of his face spoke to the immobility of his will. Costanza wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty enough in her own way, I suppose. She too had auburn hair and stubborn features.

The envoys of James II and Marie de Lusignan of Aragon paled in comparison of the royal finery, but I had no doubt they would defend their kingdom well. Their majesties of Aragon would not arrive until tomorrow morning, when the talks began in earnest at the castle. Tonight was mere formality.

"Will you remain in the talks with us?" my mother asked as my father called for quiet to welcome the ambassadors and his monarchs.

"Of course," I replied instantly.

"You will stay close to me, understand?"

I nodded. I understood the danger here. If the nobility were to attack us, we would be helpless.

"Welcome to Ravenclaw, royal majesties," my father was saying, bowing before Alfonso XI and his wife. I shivered with revulsion. I considered my father the wisest of all men, but I did not like, nor did I trust, my king. In my eyes, at least, it is inappropriate to bow before one party than before another when discussing politics.

"And welcome too, to the envoys of our ally, Aragon," he continued. I heard discontented murmuring at the term ally. Already, I did not like how this was turning out. My mother clutched my arm tightly.

"If I should tell you that here, diplomacy is of no aid, and that you must run and save yourself from being victim to violence, will you obey me?" My mother asked me tensely.

I paused. Fear struck at my heart. That was wrong. Fear should not strike the hearts of the wise, for they know that what they fear can be explained.

But I was so scared. I was scared for my father, scared these whole talks were going to result in tragedy.

"Let us adjourn to the meeting rooms to begin discussion immediately," Alfonso XI said quietly. I bristled. My father was supposed to speak as an intermediary between Aragon and Castile. I knew what the international treaties said: I knew that my father had a voice to be listened to even over the king in this matter, because he was the mediator.

When everyone had settled into the room set up for specifically this venture, my father stood to speak.

"The history between the Aragon and Castile is long, and not always friendly," my father began, his voice ringing through the room. "In this, the year one thousand three hundred and eighteen of our Lord…"

I stopped listening. I knew my father was outlining the history of our long conflict and outlining the discussion that was to take place.

I was concerned, however, that the nobles from Aragon were looking especially wary. The nobles from Castile were looking scared. This was a bad combination. Scared people act to their emotions, and this was not going to end well. Aragon feared that Castile was going to destroy her if they united. The Castile nobles feared that Alfonso would use his greater power to fully crush them, which, I had to admit, he probably would.

My father painted a picture of trade on the seas. A powerful Spain with a navy that would be rivaled by none, not even Portugal! We would have an empire to double that of the Ottomans, which reached all over Asia and the west coast of Africa.

"Even as we speak, our forces drive the last of the Muslim filth from the Iberian peninsula!" My father said. I saw the passion shining in his eyes; he looked like a man possessed. This was the venture of his heart, I knew. It was not wise. He loved his country so much though, he risked the certainty wisdom for the chance and folly of a venture of emotion.

"We are the more powerful trader!" My father cried. "Our technology on the seas surpasses that of Portugal! Combined, we could be a force for even England to reckon with!"

There were murmurs of ascent at this. I looked around and saw nobles on both sides nodding their heads, actually considering the question. Some had their brows knit together, as if they were not willing to see the picture my father was drawing, but I had to wonder if maybe, just maybe, my father could win the hearts of the dissenters. His passion and certainty were infectious. His words made my blood thrum in my veins.

"Thank you, Fernando Ravenclaw, for your stirring passion, and your wise words," Alfonso said, standing. Tradition dictated that the mediator would open the talks, followed by the country that had initiated them. Aragon would say their piece after Alfonso. Castile would have one more chance to speak, after which Aragon would speak again. My father would close with a few words and then all would retire to think on what the other had said.

Alfonso now had the job of detailing his plan. This was most crucial to the peace process; my father had laid upon all our hearts what a united Castile and Aragon would look like. All Alfonso had to do was make it logistically possible.

He did reasonably well. He allayed many of the nobles concerns about loosing their holdings. He furthered my fathers image of a colonized Africa, and the possibility of a trade route over the pacific into Asia.

"Think; what a world would it be, when Aragon and Castile control the only known Eastern trade route that is not held by the ottomans! All of Europe save the kingdoms of Naples and Venice – those of the Italian region, but all the rest of Europe will be compelled to either pay directly to us for use of the route, or ship their packages on our ships! Control of the Pacific: that is the key!" Alfonso cried.

To think that one could sail west in order to arrive in the East, I thought. What a strange concept that is. I could _feel _the victory of such a discovery in my bones.

I wondered if the other nobles were coming around. I spied a glance. Only a few remained looking discontented, though I knew others would oppose the venture only because it was Alfonso to initiate it. I bit my lip.

And then it was Aragons turn. I held my breath as Jemis Ricardo stood.

"The royal majesties of Aragon thank our cousins, the monarchs of Castile, for their hospitality, and the welcome treaties we will make in the coming days," he began.

"Such a venture would indeed be favorable in the eyes of our crown," he continued. "However, their majesties wonder what would become of the official state of Aragons' holdings, such as Sicily. They worry about the logistics of joining two strong nations; should one kingdom have two kings? Which monarchy should be dissipated if only one may remain?"

The ambassador sat to a great outcry.

"He certainly knows what buttons to press," my mother murmured.

"Do you think the ambassadors were sent here merely to create strife in the discussion?" I asked.

"I am almost sure of it," my mother replied quietly as Alfonso stood. "I fear we shall come to blows if Alfonso responds to this by instinct. This is delicate."

She didn't need to tell me just _how _delicate. Half the nobles in the room would be changing their allegiances by the end of the talks, if Alfonso got his way. And he wouldn't stand for a mere treaty – he wanted the land itself. He would take Aragon and all her holdings.

"My lady," a servant came running up to my mother. He whispered in her ear for a few seconds, and then retreated. My mother whispered an oath and stood.

"Majesty, I must ask for a halt in these proceedings," my mother said, standing. Her eyes were flashing with dark fury.

"A legion of four hundred men bears upon us as we speak. My servant informs me that they carry yellow and red flags bearing the crest of Aragon. I must demand those responsible for this deception come forth at once!"

There was silence for almost a whole minute. And then the whole hall erupted into yells. Swords were drawn, and it was Alfonso that restored quiet.

"Friends, clearly, this _is _deception, but not by our cousins in Aragon," my king said. "Clearly, these are bandits whose reason is to end these peace talks. Let us make peace upon ourselves and hastily dispatch these law-breakers."

"It is no deception, _Majesty," _a sneering voice said from the doorway.

"King James, if you could kindly explain then," Alfonso said, placing a deliberate hand on his sword hilt.

"I mean, Alfonso, that tonight you and your nobles shall die for your pretense to ascend to _my _throne. Aragon and Castile shall indeed be united, but under me, and my monarchy!"

"Rowena, sweetheart," my mother said, very calmly in my ear. "At the very first moment, I want you to run."

"It is cowardice to leave you!" I hissed.

"It is folly to remain," my mother countered. "What good do you do dying with the rest of us? You cannot defend even yourself in a fight Rowena. Your father and I have trained you to use your wit as a weapon, and wit does not work in the middle of a fight."

"I will not leave," I said stubbornly. I would die proudly with my parents.

King James maintained silence in the room. The nobles from Aragon were drawing swords, and the nobles of Castile were casting wary looks around.

"Rowena," my mother said warningly. I saw my father already struggling to defend the king against four nobles. The king was holding five on his side.

There was nothing more than a scuffle. The nobles from Castile were quickly subdued. My father's sword was knock from his hand, and he was wrestled to the ground. Alfonso was similarly subdued. If history was any guide, they would be executed in public, as examples. My mother held me close as James II walked further into the room, surveying the hall. We could do nothing but watch helplessly – damn to the very depths of hell whoever decided that it was improper for a lady to carry a weapon, even a ceremonial one, in a diplomatic situation!

"Lady Ravenclaw," he said, nodding to my mother. I saw the expression of determination on her face; she would go to her death with calm and dignity.

"Your people call you James the Just," my mother said quietly. Her voice was forceful, however. "I ask you to prove their admiration deserved, and spare my daughter the fate you shall inflict upon this household."

"You ask for your daughters safety, and not your own?" James asked curiously.

"I do not expect or want your mercy," my mother said coolly. "I am an ambassador of his majesty Alfonso. My daughter has not made my choices, nor my oaths. Why then should she be punished as if she had?"

James II nodded.

"It is right and proper for your devotion to be as such," he said at last. He looked down at me. There was something genuinely kind in his eyes. I was confused – this man was about to kill my family, he his eyes held such kindness. It didn't make sense. I bowed my head and ran as fast as I could.

I climbed up the stairs, though, and observed the scene below from a window that looked out over the hall.

James spoke to each noble before he executed them. I do not know how many begged for their lives, or offered bribes of information or money to spare themselves. I would like to believe that they maintained their beliefs in the end, and that they did not grovel. My father was impassive, for all that he was being chained hand and foot like a common criminal. The king was similarly immobilized. When none remained but them and James, and his nobles, they all left, presumably taking their guard with them on to the capitol.

I will say only briefly what happened next. I ran downstairs. I rushed from body to body, checking for a pulse. Blood pooled on the floor, thick enough that when I ran, it caused red splashes. Even Joahnnes was among the dead, having joined the discussions later on.

Practically, I knew they were dead. I knew they were. But I needed some of them to be alive, and so I kept looking for what wasn't there.

The thought of rescuing my father was absurd to me. I thought of it late into the night, when I had finally convinced myself that they were all gone. I ran upstairs, and coolly washed the blood from my hands and face. I changed into a tunic and breeches, and pulled together was resources – money, food, clothes – that I could carry.

I also took a bow from the armory. A sword would have been little more than a sharp club in my hands, and I knew how to use a bow. Relatively speaking. I couldn't shoot as well as I could speak French or English, but I could get an arrow in a straight line.

Sometimes.

And therein lay the very reason I could not rescue my father; I had a wealth of skills that was thoroughly useless to me in this situation. _I _was useless. I was so useless, I couldn't even defend myself, I thought, remembering my mothers last words.

Everything hit me then, standing for the very last time in the front hall of my home. It was over. The life I had known was gone. Everyone I knew was dead. My home was about to be crushed.

I'll admit I cried then. I sobbed like a child – I had stopped thinking of myself as a child when I was six.

The pain tore at me like nothing I had ever imagined in my entire life. It choked my throat and blocked my chest, making it impossible to breathe. I think I was hyperventilating. My home, my family. Everything I had ever known…

It was all gone.

Gone.

The building exploded.

I screamed, and the flames rose even higher, as if fed by my fear.

I ran. I ran as fast as I could, slamming through the front doors hard enough to bruise, and I ran down the lane leading to the nearest town.

Ravenclaw had well and truly fallen. Dear god, how could it be?

My home was gone.

I sobbed into the darkness, but there was no one to hear me, and no comfort to be had. I did not know where to go or what to do; I had no one I could run to, no safe haven. My parents had been my only safe haven until now.

The tears would not stop. They flowed like a neverending river.

And nobody heard my cries.

…

Helga saw the rock coming towards her, but she wasn't able to dodge it in time. It ripped open the skin of her arm, drawing blood. She would have cried out, but she knew by now that responding to pain incited the other children like blood in an ocean of sharks. She remained calm and impassive as the circle of village kids closed in on her.

The skies had been threatening rain all day, but Kayla had wanted to go for a walk. These days, Helga had no heart to fight her sister on anything, so she obliged, taking the girl by the hand and wandering through the streets of their village together. Kayla gasped in awe every time thunder pealed across the sky and clapped her hands, trying to match the sound. She was almost ten, only a year younger than Helga herself, but she was no older than six in her own head. There was nothing left, after what had happened to her in the last village they had lived in.

The two had actually been having fun, until the rock had been thrown.

Helga pulled her little sister towards her defensively, glaring at the circle of children that had cornered them in this little traveled area of town. Hadn't these children done enough to the poor girl, without tormenting her further? There was a flash of anger towards them, and then her mother, who had promised that they would be safe here. That this would be better.

She knew that the children themselves were frightened, which is why they acted as they did, and her mother could not control what others did, but it felt good to be angry at someone for the fear she was feeling now; for the fear her sister was feeling, as little as she understood what was going on.

"What do you want?" she asked, a tired edge to her voice.

"We want to have some fun," the one she knew to be the leader, Jamie Alrbright, leered at the younger of the two girls.

"I think you should go back to work, Jamie," Helga said coldly. "Before you are missed in the smithies."

Jamie simply rolled up his sleeves. Great gods of all faiths, he was massive, Helga thought nervously. Her mind went immediately to her wand, hidden in the pocket of her apron. She decided against going for it – her mother had made her understand this rule strictly: Magic is not a toy, and it is not used to harm others. She would endure whatever taunts they threw at her and her sister, and she would run away before they could do anything worse.

"I think the smithies can afford to miss me for a little while," he said.

"Not unless you want to be beaten black and blue," Helga warned. She knew as well as anyone that Jamie's master beat him, which is why she was unable to hate him for ganging up on her. He needed to lash out, to validate himself. Jamie seemed to hesitate, but the uncertainty was replaced by a malicious sneer.

"You're a freak you know," he said. "You and your sister, and that whole family of yours. You're not normal, any of you!" he hissed.

Helga shrugged. She didn't deny it. Normality was a question of averages. She wasn't average. She had accepted that long ago, and the taunt meant nothing to her. It stung her for her sisters sake, but Jamie couldn't possibly know just how far away from average little Kayla Hufflepuff was. Not even for a witch. The poor child had been thrown across the thin line of sanity by a bully just like him several years ago, and she was no longer stable, in any sense of the word.

"And you're not very nice, and the sky is blue," Helga said simply. That only served to enrage Jamie further, since he had clearly expected anger, or even a little distress at his words. He flexed his muscles.

Helga attempted to break out of the circle, holding on to her little sister tightly, but none of the children would let her pass.

"For the sake of my sister, let me pass," she said. "Have your fun another day, when I am the one to suffer for your taunts, not an innocent child."

"Oh none of us believe for a second that either of you is innocent," Jamie said, eyes glinting maliciously. "We know what you are – witches, sorceresses."

"We know you and your kin have a deal with the devil!" one of the other boys cried, finding bravery in Jamie's lead.

Helga laughed a little, the giggle bubbling up her throat. It was more out of nerves than anything, born of pure hysteria.

"Alright then, you've had your fun," she said. "May we go now?"

"Oh but were just getting started," Jamie said, and Helga _really _did not like the malicious smile he was giving Kayla. The younger girl had buried her head in Helga's skirts, scared by all the people around them.

Helga never remembered who threw the first rock, but as soon as it hit, tearing into her face, she pulled her sister towards her, shielding her from the hailstorm of rocks that that first one had unleashed. Emboldened by their numbers, the children attacked, beating the two girls with sticks and stones. Helga screamed, but no one heard, or no one cared to help the two odd Hufflepuff sisters, because there was no aid forthcoming.

Someone grabbed Helga, tearing here away from her sister. Helga heard Kayla sobbing somewhere, but she was shoved to the ground. One of the boys kicked her, and she cried out in pain, her ribs burning.

"Leave us alone!" She yelled, hearing poor Kayla scream again. There was a thud, and Kayla screamed all the louder.

Helga ignored the pain in her own body, knowing that her little sister was being hurt. She tried to crawl over to the pained girl, but another kick sent her flying through the dirt, raising a cloud of dust.

There was a loud bang, and Helga saw the children around them thrown away. Some screamed and ran for it, but some of the others, including Jamie, moved closer, evil intentions lighting their eyes unpleasantly. Helga moved over to protect Kayla, who had lashed out in anger and fear, but the poor girl had no idea that it was Helga standing over her. Her flailing fist caught Helga in the face. The older girl winced, and tried to calm her sister – in all her family, she was the only one that ever could – but there was no success.

In her fear, the younger girl sent fireballs exploding all around, make the ground shake and tremor in fear. She screamed ever louder when one of the boys aimed a kick at her head, and Helga winced at the sound – and then sobbed when her sister stopped screaming.

Hadn't the girl lived through enough already, without these horrid children doing even more?

But her attention was immediately diverted by Jamie, who had pinned her to the ground, a snarl on his lips. He ripped through the fabric of Helga's dress. She saw her wand go rolling away, snapped underfoot, and cried out for the loss of the instrument of her magic.

And then she cried out again in horror when she realized what the smiths apprentice intended. She fought back, scratching, clawing, punching, kicking, screaming, sobbing, anything she could do. Two boys held her wrists down, and Jamie's weight was unbearable. She tried to buck him off, but she was just too small for that option to be viable.

_Gods, if he _touches _my sister… _She thought, fear coursing through her veins, partly for herself, but mostly for the child she was supposed to be taking care of her.

Then he was fiddling with the tie on his breeches, and they fell, and Helga renewed her struggles, trying to look anywhere except his massive organ…

Somehow, she was naked in the dirt, and Jamie was pounding without mercy into her body – her throat was too hoarse to keep screaming now, but tears continued to fall as she was held down, trying to fight back, doing everything she could not to think of what he was _doing –_

And then he was done, and Helga tried to stand, wanting to take her sister and get away from this awful boy and his terrible friends as fast as her feet would carry her – but the boys kept on holding her down, and she realized, with a jolt of fear that was purely on her own behalf, what their true intentions were.

She turned her head to the side and vomited, unable to take that realization. She felt despair well up in her chest, pure helplessness.

She wasn't going anywhere.

One by one they used her, pounding into her most private place, shoving themselves into her mouth. She sputtered and gagged on the acrid taste. They kicked and hit her when she tried to fight back. Several times, she vomited, the taste of bitter semen on her tongue.

It kept on for hours.

Helga didn't even have the energy to sob when they were finally done. She lay, shivering and horrified in the dirt. She had no strength left to do anything, to fight, to scream, to do anything. She tried to stand when she was finally released, but her limbs were unwilling to hold her. She hurt everywhere, in places she shouldn't ever be hurting.

One of the boys – Helga was reasonably sure it was Jamie – gave her one last kick that sent her gasping for air and sprawling in the dirt.

It was dark outside, and night was coming.

Helga finally found her strength and brought herself to her hands and knees. Blindly, she crawled, trying to find her sister.

The poor girl was lying motionless, still unconscious. Helga thought that it must have been a small mercy – her clothes had been torn, and she too had clearly been raped.

Helga shuddered at the word. She felt dirty, unclean. A strangled sob escaped her throat as she lifted her poor sister into her arms.

Why? She thought desperately. How could anyone be so horrible? How could any person do something like this to another person? She shuddered with horror and revulsion and stumbled forward.

By the scant light of the moon, she saw her wand. It was broken into several pieces, the unicorn hair inside torn.

_How symbolic, _Helga thought, and shuddered again.

She looked down at the girl in her arms. Kayla was utterly unresponsive. Helga frowned. She lay the girl on the ground, placing a hand on the girls throat gently, trying to find her sister's pulse. She needed to reassure herself that they were both alive. That they could both survive this, no matter what horrifying and ungodly things had happened today.

There was nothing.

Helga felt her own heart skip a beat, and tried again, frantically hoping for even a tiny amount of movement.

"No, Kayla!" she whispered hoarsely. He throat burned from the passage of air.

Helga shook her sister gently.

"Kayla, you have to wake up!" Helga insisted, trying to wake her sister. She couldn't be dead. She couldn't be dead.

"Kayla, stop playing!" she growled – the sound was rough and animalistic.

_She can't be dead. She can't be dead. It's not fair, its not right!_

Helga sobbed. After all the crying she had done today, her eyes were sore, and there was nothing left for her to cry. She held her sister to her tightly.

"Wake up, come on Kayla, you can do it, wake up, wake up! You've survived worse than this, you can do it – come on wake up!" She moaned.

_Wake up damn you!_

"Come on, come on!" she tried to coax the younger girl back. Without magic, without any medical knowledge, she couldn't do anything. Helga felt even more helpless than when she had been held down, feeling –

_DON'TEVENTHINKABOUTIT!_

Helga made a sound that was half a sob, half a gag. She wanted to vomit and cry, and scream, but there was nothing but acid left for her stomach to vomit, and her throat had already been torn to shreds by her screams. She had no tears left to cry. So her body was wracked by the movements, without being able to produce any sound or expel any liquid.

_You have to wake up, wake up, wake up wakeupwakeupwakeup!_

Helga ran her hand through her sisters soft blonde hair.

No.

It wasn't true.

It couldn't be true.

It was wrong, so wrong.

Helga tried one last time to find a pulse in her sisters neck, but there was no result. Her sister was dead.

She howled without any sound, and ran, clutching her sisters' body, into the trees, trapped in a hell that would not release her.

**_..._**

Godric was lost. He could no longer deny that fact. He was very, very lost, and there was nothing he could gain by refusing to admit it any more.

He had been lost for hours, really, but now, with the sun starting to set, and the forest starting to close in around him, he had to admit that he had no idea where in heaven or hell he was.

Godric bit his lip, and looked around nervously. It was starting to get disturbingly dark. He heard motion to his right, and whirled around, his sword already out, but there was nothing there.

_Now is that any way for a Gryffindor to behave? Like a nervous horse? _Godric heard the voice of his father whispering in his ear as he replaced his weapon.

Godric could almost believe that this was another of the mans stupid 'tests.' Once, he had left him outside for a week, over Christmas. It had been snowing violently, and Godric had been almost dead when he had finally been admitted back inside. His father had just stood by impassively and nodded, letting the boy know that he had passed.

Godric sighed. If this _was _another test, it wasn't going to end pleasantly. Every time his father got it into his head to teach him something, it was always painful.

Of course, it was usually painful, living with Arctus Gryffindor. He had a violent temper, and an obsession with their wizard heritage.

Godric winced.

Like he _cared _whether or not someone had magic. Or whether their parents did. It was all very much by chance anyway. All magic ever seemed to bring was vanity, at the best of times. At the worst, it was dangerous.

And if he ever managed to forget just how dangerous magic was, his father reminded him constantly, placing so much importance on the need for Godric to learn control. He was punished for the slightest transgression, the most minute lapse.

_Remember Godric – we are ancient and dangerous. Our powers are strong and unchallenged. If you allow yourself to forget this – even for a second – you could do terrible things._

Godric sighed, and sat down in the growing darkness of night. He fingered the hilt of his sword. From a young age, he had learned to be comforted by its weight at his side. His swordsmanship, at least, could never be faulted. He might have only been ten, but he had the makings of a brilliant warrior. His father had never once seen fit to criticize Godric for his work on the field. He was pleased with his son's love of the weapon; in his eyes, it was only fit for a lord to be able to defend himself. He was slightly less pleased with his son's book learning (and Godric had to wince again at the thought, because his lessons were always accompanied with the pain of his punishments for forgetting to do his work, or not caring, lapsing in attention…).

Arctus Gryffindor had never read the works of Castiglione; he would die almost a century before _The_ _Courtier _would be published. But his stance on the education of noblemen was most similar to that of the renaissance writer.

To Arctus Gryffindor, it didn't matter that the nobility of France was all but spent. That the seat of the monarchy was weak, and all thought and desire of honor and valor had vanished from the discussion of politics. Arctus believed in service to a crown that no longer existed.

Night had fully engulfed the trees now, and Godric looked up through the canopy. Glimpses of stars were just barely visible between the leaves of the trees, though what he saw was not nearly enough to help hi navigate back home.

Not that he desperately wanted to be _at home, _Godric thought. He just wanted to not be _here, _alone in the woods.

He wasn't exactly scared – no Gryffindor was ever _scared, _Godric thought scathingly. He was more… apprehensive. He had no equipment for staying outside overnight.

The sound of a crash made Godric jump again, one hand going to his sword for the second time that evening.

"Damn it Veris!" Someone yelled, the sound only barely reaching his ears. "Can't you stop dropping things for just a moment?"

_People, _Godric thought. He was of two minds – if he approached them, they could tell him how to get back home. However, they could just as easily be bandits or thieves, and would either beat him up or tell him the exact wrong direction.

Godric dithered for a moment or two before finally making up his mind. Nothing would come of just standing here, doing nothing. Either he moved on, or asked for directions.

And since moving on, at this point, was a reasonably stupid idea, especially considering the encroaching darkness and the fact that Godric didn't even have the slightest idea of which direction to head off in, he might as well ask for directions.

"Hello?" He called uncertainly, moving off in the direction he had heard the voices.

"Hey, did you hear something?" Godric heard a voice – this one female, unlike the first two – ask as he came closer. He turned a bend in the road just ahead, and could vaguely make out the golden light of a fire bounding off the trees and dirt.

"Sounded like a kid," the first voice Godric had heard was saying, and suddenly, he found himself facing a very tall man. Godric had to strain his neck not to be staring at his knees.

"By the gods, Romulus – it _is _a child!" the very tall man said. Godric gulped and stared up at him. There didn't _seem _to be anything threatening about him, but Godric wasn't going to let that allay his suspicions. A lifetime with his father had taught him not to let appearances fool his instinct.

"Are you lost?" the very tall man asked.

"Yeah," Godric said. His voice sounded extremely small and quiet, especially in comparison to the tall mans booming baritone.

"Well, where are you trying to get?" The very tall man asked patiently, bending down on one knee to better see Godric.

"Home," Godric answered. And then, because he couldn't stand sounding so darn helpless, he added, "I was hunting and I got lost."

"Well, where's home kid?" the tall man asked him. "Romulus here is pretty good with directions."

Godric couldn't detect any malice in the man, but that hardly meant it wasn't there. The man was smiling, and Godric was getting something distinctly predatory from that smile. It was a scary, wolflike smile that reminded him of the cats at home when they cornered a rat.

_Something _– and Merlin only knew if Godric could ever exactly say what, made him want to duck and run for cover (not that a Gryffindor would ever do anything that undignified, of course). He decided that even being lost for a night was better than walking into a nest of thugs – or worse, bandits – in the dark, all alone, far away from anyone who could help him.

"Y-you know what, I'll be fine on my own," Godric said, forcing him to meet the glinting eyes of the stranger leering down at him. He was hyper-aware of his own pulse beating rapidly in his chest and neck, and the sinking dread of fear that was clutching his stomach.

"Don't say that just yet," the man Godric assumed to be Romulous said, coming out of the shadows and standing next to his partner. "Don't be scared – Vane n' I don't bite!"

The two of them laughed raucously, cracking up at some inside joke Godric couldn't fathom. He really wasn't liking how this was coming out, and he started backing away, a hand on his sword hilt, ready to use it if he had to.

"Hold up kid!" the edge in Romulus' voice decided Godric. He turned and ran. The two men were bigger, stronger, and more experienced than he was. He didn't have even a whisper of a chance if it came to crossing blades.

Godric only ran about five steps before he came in contact with another human body, blocking the pathway in front of him. His pulse spiked in speed as the person – he figured it was a woman, by what he had felt when he ran into her – grabbed him by the wrist.

He screamed then, loosing it.

"Let me go!" he yelled at them, hoping praying – Merlin, how he prayed – that there was someone else nearby, someone else to hear a distressed child and come to his aid. Not that he had any hope that that would be the case, really. He knew what most people did when they heard people cry for help, and he knew that his own father looked the other way when he heard people on his own doorstep cry out in starvation.

Even if there was someone nearby, he might as well have been on his own.

Godric yelled again, using a word he had once heard a member of the guard use when he had gotten shot by an arrow in the leg during a hunting trip, and had to pull it out on his own. Old Arctus Gryffindor would have slapped him soundly on the head for using it, but he wasn't around, and it was the one release Godric had for his fear as he struggled and kicked out as best he could in the dark.

He couldn't see, Merlin, they were laughing, and Godric could feel the warm wetness of tears in his eyes, and he could feel himself being dragged back towards their campfire, could hear the _things they wanted to do – _Godric reached for his belt with his free hand, releasing his dagger, and stabbed, blind and forcefully, at his captor.

"The little bastard!" Godric heard a female voice swearing, and he let go of his dagger, still lodged in what he assumed was her thigh. Romulous and Vance were coming after him, and he could hear the hiss of metal as swords were drawn.

Godric ran, leaving the path entirely. He was going to be in so much trouble when his father finally found him (_if you survive long enough for him to care to search for you, _an unpleasant thought whispered in his ear), but Godric brushed at his ear, as if he could physically banish it – he could and would survive, that's what Gryffindors did, they survived.

The thud of an arrow – no, dagger, Godric corrected himself, it was far too solid for an arrow, and they hadn't had near enough time to string a proper bow) – made him change directions randomly, running without goal in the dark, thinking and hoping only to loose his pursuers.

"_Incendio!"_

Godric heard the female voice cry out in incantation and only just managed to get out of the way as an exploding tree next to him dropped flaming branches, setting leaves of other trees aflame, spreading the fire all around him.

_Oh Merlin, she's a witch, _Godric thought, his heart pounding like a war drum. _I'm going to die – no, I'm already dead. I'm dead, my heart just hasn't stopped beating yet._

"Lets find that bitch," the witch spat, moving closer to Godrics hiding spot. He was rooted in place, unable to move, paralyzed by fear. He watched the three dark figures moving though the dancing flames and smoke, coming for him.

Godric drew his sword.

His father was going to kill him, he knew, even if it was self defense, even if they were wizards. He was going to be beaten to within an inch of his life for using magic, but there was nothing else he could do to save his life.

_Using magic as a crutch, Godric? _Arctus Gryffindor sneered at his son, and Godric flinched, but he held the sword tightly nonetheless. He would face his punishment when it came, and he'd be glad to have survived long enough to receive it.

"There he is!"

That was the too-tall man, Vance. Godrics breath hitched at the man's face – in full light, there was nothing kindly about him. He was greasy and ragged, eyes full of malice. Knowing that if he didn't move, now, he was going to be dead (or very much wishing he _was _dead), the young boy sprang into action. He raised the sword like he would a wand, channeling the spell through the cold steel rather than the phoenix feather and holly wand that his father kept locked away from him almost all of the time.

"_Stupefy!"_

Godric heard them swear, but the bright red jolt of light crackled down the length of the sword, blasting off the tip, and hit Vance square in the chest. It was a perfect shot. He crumpled to the ground without a word.

"_Flipendo!"_

The second spell hit the woman, sending her flying backwards, and her wand soaring before she could react. Godric wasn't quite fast enough however, to deflect the spell that Romulous cast at him, binding his entire body together, and sending him, immobile, towards the ground. Without any way to break his fall, Godric landed hard and painfully.

"Well well, a young magician," Romulous sneered, stepping over to the boy. Godric saw the flames just above his head, and prayed for a branch to fall and hit him, but Romulous seemed to have no fear of the fire. He summoned his female compatriot's wand (blowing out a bit of flame that had started chewing at the worn wood) and tossed it to her. The woman cast a death glare at the boy as she pocketed her wand in her breeches.

"He'll catch a fine price," she snapped. "I'd even pay you, just for a chance to make the brat's life miserable for an hour or two."

Godric knew, he _knew _that it was physically impossible for his blood to literally freeze in his veins. With a full body bind like the one he was in, his pulse couldn't even speed up. There were no physiological symptoms of his panic. It was impossible.

If Godric hadn't been in a full body bind, he knew he would have pissed his pants, however.

_Slavers. They're slavers._

"Only if we can get the buyers to ignore how feisty it is," Romulus chuckled. "Wake Vance, would you? I'm going to collar this one and put him with the others."

Godric wished (oh god, how he wished) that he had managed to master wandless magic. He knew it was possible – he had even heard of witches and wizards who went their whole lives without wands – but he had never even managed it as a child. His father had had him using a wand to cast the second he had started making strange things happen. When Artus had taken away the wand, Godric had not been able to do any magic at all, even in anger.

Instead, Godric had focused on his sword as a magical weapon, practicing whenever he could. It was a huge crutch his father had instilled in him, but he also knew why – if you needed a wand to cast, and you didn't have a wand, you didn't make accidents happen. You couldn't lose control.

_You couldn't become a monster. You couldn't kill your wife, and destroy a priceless library of one-of-a-kind books for a stupid fit of rage, _Godric thought bitterly and angrily. His father had instilled his own fears and mistakes in Godric, to the point where the sins of the father were indeed those of the son.

"You already know what we are," Romulus said, looking down on Godric, eyeing him like a butcher eyes a piece of meat. "You're no simpleton, I'll give you that. And a wizard, to boot..."

Godric wondered if Romulus even knew how his eyes were lighting up with greed. He suspected not. The man wore his emotions like a gaudy wig.

"Don't think you can use your magic to escape though," Romulus said conversationally as he waved his wand at Godric, and he floated into the air. The woman and Vance were putting out the flames with their wands, sending jets of water flying into the trees, and they only cast Romulus and his levitating captive a moments glance before returning to their work.

Romulus floated Godric all the way back down the road to where he had first heard the slavers voices. There was a covered wooden caravan, still standing next to a lit fire, which was being tended by a second woman, wearing more traditional skirts and a blouse.

"Another one?" she asked, and Godric heard the weariness in her voice. So she wasn't fully supportive of this, Godric surmised, watching her closely. Perhaps he could make use of that knowledge and gain her help in an escape?

It was as good a plan as any.

"A wizard too – the kid damn near finished off Vance and Juliet," Romulus said, floating Godric down next to the fire pit. The man went over the caravan and leaned down leaned down, opening a compartment under the covered caravan, and bringing out a stout metal collar. He blew on it, and held it up, testing its size, before attaching it around Godric's neck.

The child heard the click of the lock, and felt his heart sink in despair. He was in so much trouble, and not even from his father anymore. This was bad, so bad, why couldn't he have just decided to stay home today?

Romulus rummaged around some more underneath the caravan, until he found a small black case, and a length of chain. He connected the chain to Godrics collar, and then opened the case.

"This is a drug that will suppress the effects of your magic," Romulus said. "You'll definitely feel it, but within a few days, you'll be able to ignore it enough to be able to work and keep most food down. It's not fun, and it'll give you a perpetual hangover, but you'll learn to live with it, or you'll die."

Hadn't his father told him a thousand times over to never speak to any strangers he hadn't personally introduced him to? Over and over and over again he had said it, pounded it into Godrics head.

So why, in the name of Merlin's staff, did he have to go look anyway?

He fought when Romulus released the body bind and force fed the drug into his mouth. He struggled and tried to twist away, but he felt the drugs kick in with a painful throb that brought him to his knees with a sob.

When Romulus picked him up and dropped him into the caravan, surrounded by watchful but weary and unfortunate souls like him, Godric wasn't fighting anymore. He was shivering uncontrollably, trying to find something to hold on to, some source of comfort.

By the time the caravans cover was restored, and Godric chained to the side of the wagon, he was oblivious to the world, feeling the pangs of nausea and pain wrack through him as the drug took hold. His eyes were wide and sightless, beholding some horrible nightmare that existed only in the confines of his internal blackness.

Godric Gryffindor spent his first night as a slave huddled into a wretched little ball, blind, deaf, and mute, as well scared out of his mind.

It could only go downhill from there.

...

**Review?**

**~InK**


	3. Our Favorite Games

A History of Magic – Our Favorite Games

…

_The woman leaned back from the book, rubbing her eyes, and playing her favorite game – trying to see how long she could go without sleep. She flipped through the pages of the old journal, trying to understand what the story was telling her. It clearly followed the Founders as young children – about the age they would be entering Hogwarts. But what she was seeing before her was an account of their story she had never heard._

_No one had ever so much as suggested that each of the Founders had been so… broken? She thought of how Harry looked near the end, before he had gotten his act together. He didn't eat or sleep, and he roamed the halls like a ghost, looking lost and haunted._

_She could very well imagine the Founders in her minds eye, with that same hunted look, those same gaunt cheeks and bowed shoulders._

_She wondered who had recorded this – had the monk who had written the letter been this close to the founders? _

_The first person narrative might suggest that Ravenclaw herself had written this journal, but the woman reading the dusty tome she had found on the fifth floor of the underground library couldn't believe that that was actually the case. She wished she knew more about artifact identification, which might allow her to date the journal, but it was too late for that._

_She just hoped it might yield some answers. They had precious little time left._

_She could feel a headache coming on, and she reflexively repressed her sympathy for the Founders. Harry got injured often enough; they both did, and saw plenty of others hurt. _

_But this…_

_This wasn't like being hurt in battle, which sucked, but at least those were honorable wounds. This was awful. Perhaps because she knew too many people with children to feel okay blanking out the pain she felt on behalf of the most powerful witches and wizards she had ever met. She felt bile rise in her throat at the thought of children being harmed in such ways. And poor Hufflepuff… She had been betrayed not by adults, but fellow children. She had always been praised for her acceptance – how could she accept or trust _anyone _after what happened to her?_

_"I think sometimes we have to hurt," Harry had told her once. "Because it gives us something to fight for."_

_These children had never had any protection, any education, and so they had fought for it._

They all seem so broken, _the woman thought._

_But then, so had Harry, before all the shit hit the fan almost two years ago. The summer after fifth year, things had gone pear shaped, and Harry had…_

_Harry had fought back, rather than let his destiny be dictated._

_The Founders had done the same. And along the way, they had unlocked the answers that she needed to find so that she could make sure Harry was able to save the world just in time._

_Again._

_And here they were. Searching for answers with little to no time left, and the world on it's way to the apocalypse. The woman wondered if she should be proud of herself. _

_"Fred and George would be," she murmured, sitting back to clear her head. _

_Two years ago, everything had seemed a lot easier. At least then, Voldemort had been the biggest problem they had to deal with…_

_….._

Harry Potter was sitting near the lake, playing his favorite game, which currently involved feeling extremely sorry for himself.

Mostly, this revolved around a steadfast refusal to return to Privet Drive at the end of this year. He was sick of the constant insults, his uncle's manhandling, and his cousin's still favorite game of 'Harry Hunting.'

_He's like a majorly oversized toddler, _Harry thought, snorting.

A year ago, that thought would have brought a smile to his face.

A year ago, he would have laughed about it with Sirius, damn the fact that Voldemort was back and Fudge was a moron.

But now…

Now Sirius was dead, and Harry honestly wondered if he would ever smile again.

He just felt so… exhausted. Like a watch that was winding down with nobody to keep it working right. Like even smiling required too much energy.

He forced himself to move around, to try and get things done. He had thrown himself into his summer homework, and was done two days into break.

Sirius was dead, and it was Harry's fault. No, he hadn't cursed him, and he hadn't forced Sirius to come along and save him. But the fact was, if Harry had not run off after a dream, Sirius would be alive, and he wouldn't have put his friends in danger.

Frankly, Harry was thoroughly disgusted with himself. He had gotten a good man killed, and placed who knew how many people in danger – including a large group of his own _classmates _all for nothing.

Nothing.

_If Dumbledore had bothered to give me the time of day anytime last year, maybe this could have been avoided, _Harry thought angrily, and was instantly ashamed of himself.

The man had done what he could, and frankly, given that he was only trying to shelter Harry from _having _to march into battles like he had, it wasn't really fair to resent him, was it?

And at least Dumbledore had leveled with him.

And at least now he understood that he would have to become a murderer or a victim.

Could he do it? Could he take the life of a mass-murdering psychopath hell bent on world domination?

_Several times, and gladly _the Gryffindor part of Harry's mind said, snarling with the same anger Harry had felt as he stood before Bellatrix Lestrange.

But the practical side of his mind (the half that he had spent five years steadfastly trying not to refer to as the Slytherin half) pointed out that he was a fifteen year old schoolboy. A child going up against a trained killer.

Harry felt a mild sense of alarm rise up in his heart as he thought about that. He could imagine the reaction of his professors – even Dumbledore – if he tried to explain it.

They would attempt to comfort him, and tell him to try and not think about it, because such an event was surely a long way off.

_Well, they're wrong on that last count, _Harry thought. _I won't sit by and wait for Voldemort to keep getting stronger while I'm not doing anything at all. I'm done being helpless, and I'm done being a liability._

It was a blow to his ego, to think of himself as a liability, but Harry knew it was true. He had very little to offer in terms of practical skills. And as much as he wished he could deny it, staying at Hogwarts wasn't going to change that. Sure, he had managed to get the DA up and running, and managed to teach a bunch of ragtag students a couple of spells, but there was a difference between class and war. Harry had survived thus far on luck alone, and he was determined to change that.

Harry stood, brushing grass off his pants. Anyone watching him would have seen the way that he stood straight for the first time since he had returned from the ministry, and that he walked with purposeful strides, rather than timid steps.

Anyone who cared to watch his eyes as he made his crucial decision would have seen them burn like they once had, with the bright, unmatched shade of green that had graced the eyes of his mother. Even the shadows under his eyes looked less deep.

Indecision had torn Harry apart for the last few days. But now… now he was ready to face the world.

He had some work to do before the summer holidays came around.

…..

Death was sitting in a bar, playing his favorite game.

_That man will die in two years, in a car crash, _he thought, looking into the intricate patterns of lights that only he could read, a pattern that told the poor soul's fate.

It wasn't always certain, of course. Once, he had followed a young girl around for almost a year, convinced that she would die when her magic was drained out of her. She hovered on the edge of death the whole time, her soul dancing between the realms.

A young boy rewrote her destiny with a sword that Death knew well.

_Ah Godric, you must have been quite proud. For a student that young to slay a Basilisk and reach into the soul magic that bound the wraith to this world… _

Death took another sip of his drink.

_That woman will be cut down by machine gun fire on her next tour of duty, three months from now, _Death thought, saluting her with the alcohol. Noble child.

The man to Death's right burned. He would die tonight. Death saw it. He would choke to death on his own vomit. Pathetic.

But of course, the best was looking at these people and wondering which of them would cheat him – would any present tonight be one of those unique souls that could face him and turn their backs to his call?

For Death liked best those who could well and truly evade him – he respected them, because they respected him.

_Like the Peverell boy, _Death thought. Ignotus. Death knew when he was bested, and the youngest child of that old family had indeed bested him, even though his brothers had been fools. The boy hadn't been magically powerful or physically strong, but he had been wise. He understood. And therein lay a different kind of power. Death hadn't seen a soul that called him so sweetly as Peverell's soul did, not in the years before, or the years after.

He remembered them all. Every face and every story. And he held those souls close, because Death knew the value of life. He respected that which he took.

But even though each was unique, few truly stood out. Merlin, perhaps, though he was impetuous and without tact. A young muggle goatherd from Scotland, who had seen Death following him, and evaded the fate he had been given... drowning in a river, if Death recalled, by teaching himself to swim. There were a handful of necromancers and practitioners of ancient and dark magic that Death was on good terms with as well, some of whom were even still among the living.

The Founders, Death tried to ignore, though he enjoyed the Ravenclaw woman's company. Godric was too much like Merlin, Helga too kind, and Slytherin… too much like himself, Death thought wryly. Though frankly, he had seen too much of all four of them to care much for any of them.

Gryffindor, brave and noble child that he was, had walked through Death's realm like the arrogant Orpheus, but the brash young man had succeeded where Orpheus had failed. He was rash, but he had controlled his temper and left with his soul – and that of his beloved.

Death had actually claimed Lady Ravenclaw's soul once before. They had been playing chess when the cunning and powerful Salazar had called her back to his side. Even Death had felt the power of the young man's call.

_Ah, love, _Death thought affectionately. _The Slytherin boy always looked down on it, but it gave him so much power. How he burned when he came to demand Lady Ravenclaw! _Ravenclaw, with her audacity, smiled and rose from their game and bowed to death, asking if they could continue it at another time. Death had enjoyed her company much, though he knew her very soul was bound to Slytherin. Ravenclaw and Death were dear friends, but they were never loves.

And Helga? Helga had sat to the side as the only people she had left in this world burned from plague in the middle of their campaign to unite their realm and build a school of magic that would protect their people.

She had smiled at Death sadly, and apologized when she called upon her power to end the plague that gripped her friends and their army. She didn't burn with power– she simmered with it, like the coals of a friendly hearth. She had apologized again when Death came for her, the last of the four. She had outlived all the others simply because there was nobody who could in their right mind wish to kill her. Where she stepped, men and women alike whispered, peace followed.

Much like they whispered that where her brother, the bold Gryffindor walked, armies bowed and empires fell.

Mountains topped and oceans moved where the Lady Ravenclaw ordered, and kings lay down their crowns at Salazar's feet.

But Helga, she wanted no crowns like Salazar, cared nothing for the power Ravenclaw fashioned for herself, and had no interest in armies or empires.

She wanted nothing.

_Too nice for her own good, that one, _Death muttered.

There were many others, certainly. But not that many, and fewer every year. Most feared death too much to make their peace with him, even if they did regularly come to the edge.

_They don't make souls like they used to, _Death thought bitterly.

Though there _was _a reason he was attempting to drink himself into a stupor tonight, though long experience had shown him that he could not actually become drunk. What he had seen…

Death remembered well the night he had attended the violent deaths of the Potters, the last of the Peverell line. Death had watched as the pattern of light around infant heir to Ignotus' legacy grew brighter and brighter, signaling the end, and the curse was cast.

And nothing happened.

Death left that night with two souls. The Potter child had lived. He lived when Death had been so sure he would die.

Death had grown used to seeing the founders. But he saw that child more than the four of them combined.

And tonight, something disastrous had happened. He had been watching the boy, once again ready to take his soul, when the lights around him disappeared.

His density.

It had vanished.

For many years, his aura had said the same thing. He was one of the lucky ones who would die on his own terms, when he was ready to face his enemy and save the world and all that. He would fulfill all those grand and wonderful ideas mortals loved so dearly, and become a romantic and tragic hero. That destiny clung to him like a blazing cloak.

But tonight, as the boy hovered between Death and life, the boy's destiny wasn't altered – it vanished. It was as if Fate had grown so frustrated that she refused to continue to assign him a fate.

It was as if, in a single instant, all of history had collapsed, and all the grand ideals that this boy was expected to carry had simply ceased to matter.

_Could a man deny his fate?_

Death remembered the Goatherder. He was one of the only ones who had ever changed his fate on purpose.

Well, it seemed Harry Potter was gearing up to do great things. Or at least, Death hoped so.

The man next to Death rose, staggering. Death stood with him, draining the glass.

Time to go back to work.

….

**Please review?**

**~InK**


	4. Cardiomyopathy

A History of Magic – Cardiomyopathy

**Just so we're clear, I know I've had some fractured points of view through the first two chapters. From now on, I'll be alternating chapters with the Founder's views and Harry's. We good?**

**Excellent.**

**Enjoy my twisted imagination!**

**….**

Salazar did not truly believe in god. He swore by several of them, and he used faith as a weapon against others (Salazar could quote the doctrines of several faiths quite well), but he held onto none for himself.

But if he ever had believed in the divine, this asylum would be enough to drive the faith from him. Truly, this place was godforsaken.

_No, not forsaken, _Salazar frowned. _Just godless._

_Or perhaps there is a god, and this is hell._

He had been chained in the same dark room for three days. His cell – for it was most definitely a cell – was damp and cold, and the chains hurt. The smell of human refuse lay thick in this place.

Salazar tried to bear his discomfort with all the dignity of a Slytherin.

_What dignity there is left in Slytherin's blood, _Salazar thought bitterly. _We are broken, our line ended. _His uncle would bear no more children, and the estate would go to his cousins as a dowry. Salazar did not hate his squib cousins, but he was the heir to the Slytherin land. As women, they could not inherit, even if they were competent enough to. The law forbade it.

When he wasn't thinking about mounting his uncle's head on a stake or trying (and failing) to escape, Salazar was bored.

Really really bored.

And hungry.

The food was half rotten, and there wasn't enough of it to feed a growing boy.

Salazar was chained just loosely enough to reach a bundle of blankets at once side of the room. There was no place for refuse, and after a few days of painfully trying not to go, Salazar found that he couldn't even care that he was soiling himself.

Salazar didn't sleep, either. The screams and wailing kept him up at all hours, and unsettled him.

Three days of this, and Salazar feared he was already going mad.

This place was hell. It was a hell created by evil men who wished torment on others. Salazar understood that. Hell was not a metaphorical punishment of god; it was real, and he was living in it.

And the worst of it was not having a wand. He couldn't magic himself out without one – it was impossible to do. Salazar had never thought that being separated from his magic might frighten him so much.

It was huddling in cold, fear, and stink when he first heard the voice.

_'Wet… Cold…'_

_'Hello?'_

_'Who are you? Can you hear me?'_

Salazar realized it was a snake. He smiled.

_'It's okay, I'm human, but I'm like you,' _he explained, and watched the brown snake that came into view from a hole in the wall.

_'You speak.'_

_'I do.'_

_'Quite well, for a human. I knew a speaker once, but I think much was lost in the translation,' _the snake offered.

_'Thank you,' _Salazar replied, knowing it was high praise, from a snake. He too knew a few speakers, most of the really old wizarding lines like himself. The gift seemed to get more and more rare. He had learned at the very least to treat all snakes with a great deal of respect – they had their own internal magics, and pissing off one or two snakes might be signing your own death warrant if you were a parseltongue.

_'What is your name, human speaker?'_

_'I am Salazar. By what name are you called?'_

_'You may call me Sophia. You are young.'_

_'I am.'_

_'Why are you in this cold place? It is not good for the young.'_

Salazar could taste the bitter unfairness of his situation on his tongue, felt the rant coming.

_Control yourself, _he ordered himself sharply. No more. His temper had driven him to confront his uncle, and had gotten him into this whole mess, instead of being able to act proactively. He wasn't going to loose his temper like that again.

_'It is nothing,' _he offered, by way of explanation. _'But I cannot leave.'_

Sophia slithered up to him, curling up his leg and settling near his collarbone.

_'You are warm,_' she observed from that position_. 'I believe I will stay as well.'_

_'As you wish, Lady,' _Salazar said, and he could swear the snake eyed him distainfully.

_'Are you making fun of me?' _she asked dangerously. Salazar giggled.

_'Never, dear lady,' _he replied. His new companion snapped her tail against his neck in a reminder to behave, before she settled.

Her presence kept the nightmares away, and seemed to hold the screams back too.

They would talk together. Sophia brought him news of the outside world, of real life and real people. She debated with him – as it turned out, she had been a wizard's familiar many years ago, and when he died, she had remained.

She knew loss as well as he, Salazar knew, which is one of the reasons he could not shun her presence. She comforted him in the way that only others who had walked through the depths of hell could.

After a week, he would only wake occasionally.

He had been there for two weeks when he caught typhus.

For the first time in his life, Salazar truly felt like he was going to die. It was the first time in his life that he could remember truly _wanting _to die. He had known it was only a matter of time before he caught something, but his vindication didn't stop his weak chest from shaking with coughs as he fought the sickness.

They moved him to the hospital ward for several weeks. The sounds of the dying and the stench of the dead surrounding him. Salazar lay awake at night, huddled tightly between two other sick patients. He woke one morning staring into cold dead eyes.

When he fever broke and the coughs ended, Salazar wanted to sing with joy. He was moved back to his disgusting cell, and was happy just to be with Sophia again – he refused to allow her anywhere near the crowded hospital.

As time went on, he was still trying to figure out what kind of snake she was. It hurt his cause that he had no way of seeing her properly in the light, because his cell was so dark, and he could not bring her outside.

After a month, he barely heard the screams at all.

He refused to dwell on the dark moments. The times when they dragged him from his cell to throw freezing water on him, or when he was stripped naked and beaten. Or the time he had seen them cut off a patients leg with no anesthetic to get the demons out of it. If he dwelled on that, then his chest began to constrict, and he could feel the tears rising.

He refused to think of being one of those screaming and moaning patients they tore from the cells.

He knew when he had been there a month, because his hair had grown out quite long, and bedlam sheared it all off.

They bound him to a chair and chopped with imprecise strikes that had cut skin as well as hair. Salazar's head had only patches of hair when they were done.

Sophia had been dismayed when he had returned. Salazar had shrugged.

_'Its only hair,' _he said. But he wanted to cry. Holy hell, how he wanted to cry and have someone to him and feel safe. It was completely irrational to feel this way about _hair, _but that's all he could think.

And has for having comforting arms to hold him that was pure fantasy. He was not safe. He would not seek comfort that could never be given, because there were no shoulders left for him to cry on, not even at home.

And so he stifled his tears.

_'You know, many important wizards were bald,' _Sophia observed.

_'What are you on about?'_

_'Many important and powerful wizards had no hair,' _Sophia repeated, as if he were slow.

_'Like who?' _Salazar challenged.

_'Merlin was bald.'_

_'Come off it.'_

_'Really. No eyebrows either – apparently he kept burning them off with experiments.'_

Salazar didn't know if he was sobbing or laughing anymore.

_'My old master once said that he read an account of a whore that said Merlin didn't even have any hair on his –'_

Salazar descended into giggles, and Sophia too seemed to be having trouble finishing that sentence.

'_You were going to say feet, right?' _he asked when Sophia and he were finally able to speak again.

_'If you say so, wizardling.'_

Salazar started giggling again.

The next morning, Salazar awoke to find his black curls were shoulder length again.

He was treated to a second shearing, and then a third and a fourth. After the sixth day in a row that he was strapped down and had his hair hacked off, it didn't come back.

The smirk Salazar had worn all week vanished when he awoke bald for the first time. Sophia comforted him, and reminded him of their earlier discussion, which led to a debate about whether or not having hair actually obstructed the use of magic. Salazar couldn't see how that could be possible, but Sophia seemed to think it might make a difference, listing some obscure tomes that Salazar wished he could get his hands on.

Around the same time they took his hair for good, they started letting him out into the communal area. It was always horrible.

Once, he brought Sophia. She was spotted by a drunken nurse, and Salazar was beaten until he could _feel _bones breaking.

He never brought Sophia there again, and spent all his time huddled in a small ball of terror, watching the other patients.

There were a lot of them. Salazar didn't even need to know how big the 'hospital' was to understand that it was overcrowded.

What he understood better than anything, however, was the desperate need to escape. All of his thoughts were bent on this – even his fantasies of revenge were not as important.

Weeks passed.

Sophia and Salazar had started planning pranks to play on the staff, but after the first time he had successfully pulled one off, he had been whipped to within an inch of his life, and hadn't been given food for a week.

Neither suggested the prank idea again.

Salazar hadn't said a word in English for who knew how long. His boy was emaciated, and there was simply no strength within his bones.

_'You will die here,' _Sophia told him coldly one day.

_'I will not,' _Salazar rasped.

_'You will die here, and there will be no help for you child. You must gather your senses!'_

_'I can't even use magic to help myself!' _Salazar cried out_. 'What do you want me to do?'_

_'Oh dear one,' _Sophia sighed. _'Not all magic requires a wand.'_

And yet, try as he might, Salazar could not achieve such magics. If they existed, they were utterly beyond his capabilities. The trick with his hair never duplicated itself, and Salazar wondered if it was just a fluke sent by god to taunt him.

He was beginning to see the truth of it. He _was_ going to die in this hellhole, and he had no way to escape it, no matter what Sophia said. He wasn't a wizard without his wand. He knew it. He was completely helpless.

What irked him most is that it meant that the bastard Ricardus would win.

….

I don't know in truth how far I ran that night.

I know that when I was finally aware of where I was, I was far away from home. My feet were raw and covered in blood. I am many things, but I most certainly not athletic.

I was still in the Iberian Peninsula, of that I was sure. Night still surrounded me, but I couldn't have run far enough to leave. And for the first time since my home had gone up in ashes around me, I had to figure out what to do. Where to go.

Everyone I knew was a nobleman who would now be under the iron law of the man who was going to have my father executed. My life was spared, but not so that I could remain in my home.

But where else was there? For the love of god, I was eleven!

And every time I closed my eyes, I saw my tutors' bloodstained hands, my mothers gorgeous dress, marred with red from her slit throat. My father's pained and determined expression as he was restrained and leg away with his king. The blood pooled so deep it splashed in red clouds around me.

I gave myself over to weeping at last, unable to do anything else, and not knowing what I _could _do.

I must have slept. I didn't want to, because I could imagine the dark dreams that hovered around me like wraiths.

But when I dreamed, I did not recall the carnage I had left in my home. I saw four figures shining with light. They stood in a magnificent hall, weapons drawn. 

_"So long as there are any left standing, they will be welcome here," one of them said. She had golden hair and soft features that were hardened with determination._

_Another one snorted as if he would contest that, but his eyes were fixed on the door, his sword drawn. _

_"Swear it Salazar," she might have been begging, though she said it like an order._

_"I stand to defend _all _of those who ask for aid," he said, too patiently. "Though as the world is like as not to end today…"_

_But the woman already turned away._

_"I will hold the defenses for as long as I can if you fall," she said softly, and the other woman among the four hugged her._

_"It will not come to that, my sister."_

_There was something familiar about the second woman, but I couldn't place it. She was wearing men's livery, with shining chain mail underneath. What drew my attention however, was her coat of arms. It was blue and copper, and depicted a raven carrying a scroll._

_The crest of Ravenclaw. Who was this woman?_

_"Yeah, these demons are like kittens. All brawn, no brain. They can't fight," the last man said with an easy grin. He was built like a bear and had his naked sword in hand as well. "Ugly too," he added._

_"They must be related to you then," the first man drawled._

_The blonde woman giggled. _

_"The end of the world is here, and the two of you are still fighting," she said, sighing dramatically. _

_"It's okay," the bear-like man said. "Old snake face is just jealous of my panache."_

_The other man rolled his eyes, but grinned._

_Don't worry, we'll get through this," he assured her._

_The four waited as the hall filled with men and women. Some wore armor, but most didn't. Almost none carried swords, favoring little sticks instead. If they were gearing for a fight, they would loose._

_"Ready yourselves," the bear-like man called. "Be strong – today we fight not for glory or conquest, but for all that we love. For the very right to exist. If we must die at the hands of this menace, let us die with honor, rather than groveling on the floor like dogs!"_

_The men and women did not cheer, but the words seemed to strengthen them. _

_"They are here," the woman said._

_The doors slammed open._

I awoke to streaming sunlight, confused.

Who were those people? Just what had I seen?

_It was just a dream, _I reminded myself steadily. _It was all in my head._

I forced the four figures out of my mind. They looked so _familiar! _

And why was that woman bearing my coat of arms? I shuddered at that; for me to be the only Ravenclaw left, the last of my line. Even if I married, I was the last Ravenclaw.

I sighed. I had more pressing problems than nighttime visions at the moment. I had to decide what to do, where to go.

I could not go back. No noble would take in a Ravenclaw now. I needed water, shelter, and food in that order, and I needed a source of income if I was to go into urban areas. I doubted I'd be much good at begging or thieving, but I might be able to pick up a trade as a scribe.

I made a face. Nobody took on women for apprenticeships. If that was truly my plan, I would have to go as a man. I also knew that traveling as a young boy alone was safer than traveling as a woman.

I carried a ceremonial dagger with me bearing my mother's coat of arms – a raven holding a scroll – on it. I used the dull blade to shear my hair short.

I tried to tell myself that my people were wanderers by nature, that it was in our blood to be sensible and know what to do, but I felt nothing but fear.

Common blood might thrum in my veins, but I was raised noble, with noble sensitivities and cares. I barely knew the first thing about surviving on my own.

I needed to determine where I was, first thing, so I could see about getting as far away from home as I could. I wasn't going to give anyone a reason to execute me.

Well, I _was_ in a wood, after all. I picked a tree and began the slow business of climbing. I fumbled several times, and I nearly fell more times than I could admit.

_Pathetic, lilly-handed noble, _I snarled at myself as I reached the top of the tree gasping for air.

To the west, opposite the newly risen sun, I saw smoke rising. I flinched. I saw the unmistakable spires of Cuenca to the south. For a moment, I entertained the wild idea that I could go to Grenada, and hide among the Muslims. I could work for passage across the channel and go to North Africa. Many men had traveled the trade routes all the way to the coast of China – surely I could too? I saw the land spread out before me. If it didn't mean passing the capital, I could even go to Protugal and join a ship bound for the currents that would bring them into the west. I could follow my father's dream and see if the world truly was round.

_The dream that would never be realized._

I wanted to _know. _I wanted to see the end of the world, and discover where it led.

I snorted, knowing my so called plans were romantic fantasy. No sane man would hire an eleven year old aboard any ship going in any direction, even if I could pass as a boy.

_Especially an eleven year old that was as useless as I was, _I grumbled, feeling a wash of self-pity run through me.

_Enough, _I finally threw myself out of that funk. All of Castile was lain out before me like a map. It was beautiful. It was enormous. I could hardly imagine the world that lay beyond the borders of my sight.

The world was indeed a very large place. And what was I? I felt like I was drowning. Like I was awash in a storm at sea. I had never seen one, but my father had. He told me of the boundless fear such a storm could inspire in the most stoic of men.

How do you fight an enemy you can't even understand?

I looked away and began my long journey down. I would like to think that my journey down was lightly more graceful than the journey up, but the truth is, I slipped more than once, and I landed on my ass when I finally hit the ground.

_Ouch._

I pulled myself to my feet, feeling frustrated. I felt tears burning in my eyes, and I brushed them away. I set to walking northeast. There were trade roads that led into Europe proper, and the going would be easier than moving through forests and rivers in the outlands.

Hours of walking turned into days.

I couldn't remember a time when everything didn't hurt. My feet burned from walking, and my leg muscles were sore. My arms burned from practice with the bow I had taken. I was almost always hungry, and my stomach gurgled constantly. Memories from a lifetime ago helped me remember diagrams of plants and berries, and after getting sick twice, I learned how to find the edible ones.

I missed Johannes and our debates. I missed my mother's soft smile, and my father's clever grin. I missed my home, where I could pass among adult circles without hesitation. And I missed my books. There was one on the culture differences between Catalonia and Grenada which I had wanted to finish. It had burned with my home.

With every step, I couldn't stop the rant in my mind. I missed being clean. I missed sleeping in a bed. Reading. I missed people. Books.

At night, I was too exhausted to dream.

The countryside passed agonizingly slowly. After two weeks, I thought I might still be in Castile, and I had yet to see the trade route I had expected.

I was forced to admit I was lost.

I stumbled upon a small trading village. They didn't speak any dialects I knew, but I could make out what the woman I was speaking to had said; I had quite seriously misjudged the distance I had run that first night. The city I had seen from the forest hadn't been Cuenca. It had been Salamanca, which was several weeks' walk west of Cuenca.

I groaned.

Of course.

I set off again, feeling more stupid than I ever had, but ready to correct that mistake.

I shot a rabbit for the very first time, and couldn't wait to tell Johannes. I grinned about my victory for a full minute before I remembered.

My mood much subdued, I started gathering sticks for a fire. It was only when I had everything set up that I remembered that I had no way of actually setting my wood alight. I had no flint, nothing to strike a spark.

I stared at the bloody rabbit dejectedly.

Anger rose within me. Was this to be my fate then? Was I to die in the wilderness rather than by a kings' sword? Was my mothers' gift to me meaningless?

I nearly screamed in surprise when my pathetic tinder burst into flames.

It took me a long time staring at the fire before I leapt into action, feeding wood to the fire and skinning the rabbit with the ceremonial dagger. Trial and error (and many cut fingers) taught me how to sharpen it to hold an edge that was workable enough to use.

The food – my first meat in a long time – felt like ash in my mouth, though I suppose I hadn't done the most thorough job removing all the hair, nor was I skilled at cooking in general.

As I ate, I remembered the fire that exploded behind me as I ran from my home. What devilry was this that followed me in my grief?

The question hung heavily upon me, and I stared glumly at the embers until they burned themselves out. Normally, I would love such a mystery. Now it just depressed me to know I had no books to seek information from, and no Johannes to talk through theories with.

I passed several towns, but I avoided people in general. I was dirty and I smelled.

I dreamed several times of the four men and women, puzzling over their faces and identities. Who were they? Why did I dream of them? I wished for my books, so that I could find out.

I had been on my own for a month when it started to rain.

It was cold and wet. I couldn't sleep. The rain continued all the next day, and the day after.

I was sick, and soaked to my bones. Muddy too.

I curled up into a ball in a bush, delirious with fever. I thought I saw my mother reaching out to hold me, thought I heard my mother's voice.

And if I thought for some time that perhaps my month alone had been a fevered dream, and that soon I would wake up, I hope I shall be forgiven. I was never the strongest of us, and I missed my home dearly.

I saw bodies rise from pools of blood to dance. Blood rained from the ceiling, skeletons shed their skins…. I dreamed of shrieking animals and creatures with green eyes that burned with destructive power. I dreamed of a little girl with blonde hair and sad eyes who was destroyed by her grief. Power rolled off of her in waves, completely uncontrolled. She was sobbing, begging for forgiveness in a dark and hostile wasteland.

I saw a boy shivering with cold refusing to cry as a whip came down upon his back, and rain crashed down around him.

I saw an emaciated figure standing in the rubble of a building, surrounded by the dead and dying. He looked up, and his eyes were full of grief.

I saw the dancing skeletons tearing out a man's gut and dancing around with it. The screams were awful.

I don't know how long it was that I lay there, seeing these horrible visions.

I was very weak when I awoke, but I was alive. Being dead didn't hurt this much.

My pack was gone, but I still had my cloak, my bow, and my dagger. I didn't know if the rains had carried the pack away, or if it had been stolen, but I moved on without a second thought.

I had lost too much to care.

It started raining again, much to my dismay. I found what little shelter I could under a tree, but there was still a lot of water. I sighed, wishing for my mother. She used to sing all the time. I hummed one of the tunes she had taught me. It didn't hurt as much as I thought it would, to remember her.

I didn't see the branches of the tree as they knit together, but I did feel it when the rain stopped coming down on me. I looked up to see a very workable roof over my head.

And I was dry.

I didn't have the energy to disagree with a tree, so I simply lay down. Whatever this mysterious power was, it seemed to be protecting me.

I shuddered at the thought of the blazing inferno that had been my home.

I had to remember that this protector also destroyed. But perhaps that is the nature of all power, yes? To be both sword and shield? To kill and defend, to protect and destroy?

But I had too few resources to deny such a gift, if it was within my power to control it.

Whatever this power was, I would find out, and I would use it to survive this.

I would not – could not – let my mother's final gift to me be wasted.

I slept fitfully, and dreamed of four blazing figures.

…

Helga Hufflepuff woke to find herself clutching her sister's dead body.

"Dear god, what have I done?" she whispered, hoarse with horror. "Kayla."

The girl had suffered so much in her life – it didn't seem fair that she could meet such an end now. Her body was cold and lifeless. Helga held onto it as though it was her very last line to life.

"There must be something," Helga whispered, her eyes closed against the pain. She didn't want to see her sister pale and rigid with death, to look into her unseeing eyes and feel her cold hands.

It was like drowning on land. Her lungs couldn't hold air, and her heart seemed to be working at half capacity.

Helga gasped for breath, and all she could think was that she wished she had died.

She would suffer yesterday's pain a thousand times and then some if it meant that her sister could live again.

Helga knew that she was a powerful witch. Her mother had always cautioned her about practicing magic because of it. There had to be something she could do to fix this. She didn't know if her magic could even work without a wand, but she had to try. She would make this right.

The magic poured out of her like water. It flowed into the clearing, leveling trees and killing plants and animals until a large circle was cleared. Runes Helga could not have known were carved into the ground, but when Helga opened her eyes, her vision was filled with her sister's body. The magic was being pulled out of her.

She could return a broken stick to the body of a tree. She could give a lame dog a new limb. What was that but returning something dead back to life? Reconnecting the soul to the body?

She released her power, trusting that it knew what to do. She pulled it towards her sister.

_Live, _she ordered. _Come back to me Kayla._

The earth shook around the dead girl and her sister.

Helga felt the power rise up like a tsunami within her. It was the darkest kind of magics, practiced by the evilest of people. The kind of power that frightened Helga in the night.

She smiled as tears ran down her face. She was completely blind to the outside world.

The magic was _wrong, _but she pulled it up and out of herself anyway, uncaring.

_Kayla, I love you, _she thought desperately.

The magic exploded out from underneath her. It poured from every place in her skin, shining with green light. It swirled around Hela, and she called it to heel. It paused, like a dog at its masters' call.

And then it broke free of her control.

Helga screamed. The magic was ripped from her, and pushed itself into her sister. Helga didn't see the mark it left burning like a brand in Kayla's body. She had to follow along with the power as it reached _through _Kayla. Helga whimpered with fright as she caught a glimpse of decaying trees and shrieking animals. Something with menacing red eyes and huge teeth roared angrily, and Helga drew back. The magic reveled, escaping into the black abyss around her.

Helga was pulled back into her own body as the magic returned. She was shaking now, though she didn't know it.

She opened her eyes at last.

"Kayla?" Helga called hoarsely, uncertainly.

A hand twitched. Helga grabbed onto it, but the touch burned her skin. She drew back, hissing with pain.

Kayla slowly sat up, and opened her eyes.

They were red.

Kayla opened her mouth and screamed. It was a horrible, tortured sound, more animal than human. It was like the shrieking call of the creatures in the world beyond.

Helga covered her ears, crying out. She wanted to help her sister, make it better, but she didn't know what to do. She was helpless.

"Kayla!" Helga sobbed, blinded by tears.

The girl exploded.

Helga was struck speechless as blood and organs went flying, hitting trees. Helga stared at the hand that had flown into her lap. She was soaked with blood.

_No._

_Nonononononononononono!_

The harsh reality swelled over Helga, and she felt as though she were drowning. It overwhelmed her, threatened to undo her.

_"Hello Human."_

Helga's eyes rose and widened.

The… thing… in front of her towered over her. Well, Helga was always small, so this wasn't hard to do, but the creature was about six feet tall, made of smoky shadows. Its body was vaguely like that of a human, except that the limbs were far too spindly, and the face was snakelike, with large teeth the length of Helga's palm. The mouth was twisted in an evil grin. Shadowy power hung around the creature like smoke or fog.

It's eyes burned with green power.

The creature opened its mouth in a hiss.

Helga vanished with a crack.

She was at home, in the kitchen. She was safe and warm, and there was food on the table. Kayla would be in her room playing. Her father was herding sheep in the fields, and her mother would be weaving. Just like every other morning. The horror she had suffered was just a passing nightmare; everything was fine.

Helga's mother was staring at her oddly, and the girl began to shake.

"Helga, what happened?"

Beyond words, all Helga could do was cry.

"Helga, where's Kayla? What did you do to my daughter?"

Helga didn't feel her mother's arms around her, didn't feel the cloth she used to blot at the blood that covered her from head to toe.

"You stupid girl, you've been using magic!"

She didn't feel the blow, or the next one. Didn't try to explain – for what could she say?

A shriek crossed into Helga's numb mind.

Terror.

Sheer, immobilizing terror.

_Not here._

Screams filled the air. Helga stood, pushing away her mother's hand. In the shadows of the morning light, she looked like she was ten feet tall.

Helga stumbled out into the village.

Carnage filled her eyes. Blood and innards were everywhere. It looked like a slaughterhouse.

Helga felt violently ill.

"Please!"

The weak gasp was Jamie, the blacksmith's apprentice. The bastard who had raped Helga and her sister. His guts were pulled out into a long string that ran all the way back into his house.

Helga just looked on, her mind unable to process what was going on.

Bodies were strewn everywhere. Some had faces bashed in. A mother lay in her doorway, holding a babe to her chest, still crying out in depth.

_"Thank you for freeing me."_

That malevolent voice jarred in her very soul.

Helga turned to face the shadow.

"Please," she sobbed. "Go away!"

A chuckle. This godforsaken creature _laughed _at the death he had left in his wake. Flesh still clung to his teeth. Helga recoiled, revolted.

She turned and ran.

_"The small ones are always so tasty."_

Helga felt the bite pierce her leg and she screamed. She felt to the ground in pain, felt darkness encroaching on her vision.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!"

The magic rose up again, like bile. It reached out to destroy, to ruin. Helga forced it down. Again and again they fought, struggling for dominance. Helga's magic encircled her, wrapping itself around her like a cloak.

_Take me away, far away from anyone, _Helga begged, not knowing how else to use her magic. It was practically sentient, and it responded to her. _Please, don't let me hurt anyone else._

The world blacked out.

Helga opened her eyes. It was dark.

She needed a light. But as she thought this, a ball of green light appeared beside her, blinding her. The ball of light dimmed slightly, and she blinked.

The landscape around her was hard to make out. She was sitting on some kind of bridge. The river below her looked like dark sludge, and a smoky black fog hung around everything. Only one bank of the river was visible, and so Helga stood and set off in that direction. The light followed. There was a tree on the shore, but it wasn't like anything Helga had ever seen. It was twisted and grotesque, and its leaves were wilted. It was hard to tell color with only a green light to judge by, but she thought the bark might have been bright red.

In the distance, the shriek of some unnamed and horrible creature sounded.

Helga shuddered.

_This is hell, _she realized dully. _I've died and gone to hell, and this is my punishment for not taking care of my sister._

Helga felt dizzy. There was another shriek.

The world blurred together, and the light went out.

Helga fell to her knees then, and cried. She knew that the events of the last day had shattered her. She was a monster.

She was worse than that… _thing _that had killed her entire village, because she had brought it here! And it was by her doing that her sister had suffered so greatly.

_I should have taken better care of her, I should have been more careful! This is all my fault!_

"Forgive me, please!" she begged into the silence. It was cold here, she realized. She was shaking.

Another shriek came, but it didn't scare Helga as much as she thought it would.

She deserved to die.

She deserved to die a thousand times over, and suffer the worst that hell had to offer for being such a horrible guardian – and such a horrible sister. She didn't deserve forgiveness.

"I'm a monster," she whispered, horrified.

Saying it out loud is what finally broke her. The tears dried slowly on her face and her torn dress. She was tired – exhausted. She had no more tears to spend.

Silence wrapped itself around her like a blanket. She didn't see, didn't here. It was better this way. She couldn't hurt anyone.

She felt like she was spinning. She couldn't even feel the ground underneath her. The world – or whatever was left of it – was fading away. She couldn't even feel her own fingers. It was blessed comfort. Was she dead? This wasn't all so bad, really.

She floated there, feeling serene.

_Breathe._

In and out. She knew how to do that. The air flowed in and out of her chest. Her heart beat.

_Mon-ster, _her heart accused her. Helga faltered.

_Breathe child._

Helga did it again, uncertainly.

_Mon-ster, _her heart answered calmly.

_Again, _the voice ordered. She followed.

_Mon-ster, mon-ster._

"Can you hear me?"

Helga opened her eyes slowly.

The eyes that met her were hard, calculating. Helga nodded uncertainly.

"Good. One can never be sure about a journey to the Other realm, though you humans do tend to do worse than most."

"What?"

The word was hoarse and raspy.

"The Other realm," the man said, standing back. Helga saw now that he looked young, in his twenties. He had a sharp beard and straight black hair. His armor was dull and black, made from some kind of hide she couldn't identify. His voice had some kind of foreign accent, but she could detect a sarcastic cheerfulness that caught her off guard. "Birthplace of the shadowlings, home to many unsavory types of monsters, demons, werewolves, some nasty fairies, and of course, vampires, like myself."

"What?"

Helga's mind seemed to have stopped working.

The man smiled a smile that revealed pointed teeth, and the girl thought she might back out again.

_So I was right, this really is hell, _she thought, staring into those cruel eyes.

_God have mercy on my soul, not that I deserve it._

…

Godric Gryffindor had learned form a young age that no Gryffindor was ever scared.

It was drilled into him over and over again. It was the reason for his father's many painful and inane tests, the reason Godric's childhood was harsh, and why at ten years old, he could skin a rabbit as fast as a seasoned soldier, and hit a deer with the same accuracy. It was why the only reason he failed to beat trained knights with a sword was his size.

No, Godric had learned to be contemptuous of fear, to loathe terror, and to act despite dread and horror.

Arctus Gryffindor had raised a strong son, if nothing else.

But the absence of his magic was something Godric had never learned to live with. He used his sword to channel power when he could not have a wand, and he could sometimes do without either, though sporadically and with no control.

He had acclimated enough to the drug to be able to eat without wanting to throw up. The other captured slaves ignored him, or watched him with terror out of the corner of their eyes.

They knew what he was.

Godric would have laughed, if he felt like laughing. Except nothing felt particularly funny when he had to fight to keep the world from falling apart in front of him.

There was a collar around his neck that was slowly replacing the effects of the drug. Godric figured it must take time to get used to his magic to be able to work right. He figured if he had spent more time studying and listening to his father, he would know what to do to be able to escape; but he sat there, useless.

He was _not _scared.

Godric repeated that to himself. He wasn't scared. He wasn't scared.

If he said it enough times, it would be true.

He was not scared.

But Godric knew what happened to wizards kept as slaves. There was a rather large underground market for magical folk, and he was frightened out of his mind.

He had to escape.

Once a day, the slaves in the caravan were allowed out to use the restroom, and were fed a bowl of soup. One of their captors cleaned the wagon with magic, and returned the slaves to their prison.

By the time a week had passed, Godric's fear had burned low, and his anger was well overtaking it. From what he could tell of their direction through gaps in the wood they were headed south, probably to Italy.

_Or maybe they just want to board a ship and take us across the sea, _Godric thought despondently.

Two weeks into traveling, Godric didn't feel the pull of the collar at all. They had stopped feeding him drugs, so he could concentrate now, but he had no magic. The slavers must have thought the young wizard to be cowed.

The other slaves had seemed beaten down at first, but as Godric grew lucid enough to listen, they told stories as the long days of travel passed. They talked about history, medicine, and lore. Godric listened and learned, for the first time in his life.

For some reason, information was much easier to absorb like this, chained and fearing for his life. It kept his mind off the situation, and didn't let him feel afraid.

_I'm a Gryffindor, not a lousy coward, _Godric reminded himself. He often let his anger build within him, storing it quite carefully. He had a short temper, and the long rides of silence punctuated by softly whispered stories forced him to control it.

The girl chained on his left was as meek as a mouse. She had wide, sad eyes, and didn't speak a word. Godric wondered if she didn't speak French (which would be strange because everyone else seemed to), if she was mute, or if she had simply suffered beyond the ability to speak. He had seen the last happen to soldiers who came back from the Crusades sometimes.

He tried to speak to her, but she shied away from him. Godric gave up on this line of contact, though he did sneak some of his food to her – she looked much worse than he, and he was used to going without food.

Besides, as he intended to escape as soon as he could, he figured he could simply find food then.

Weeks into their travel, the slavers ran into terrible rains that didn't stop. The mouse girl huddled in her corner, shivering. Water leaked into the caravan, and almost all the captured people got sick. Godric didn't know enough to recognize influenza from the symptoms, but he did know that four dead bodies were abandoned on an anonymous French road.

And he knew that the mouse girl was next. She was coughing hard, and weak. Godric went completely without to care for her. He didn't know why he was so driven to protect this girl, but she was so helpless! She deserved being here less than anyone. He knew it.

Godric gave her his overcoat. The warmth and the food seemed to revive her, but still she didn't speak. She just looked at Godric with wide, sad eyes.

With the mystery of the girl and stories told by his fellow captives to fill his mind, time passed faster than it should have.

Slowly, however, Godric was going insane from the confinement. He often slept with the window open, or just climbed the walls to sleep outside, because his lavish rooms were too much. He was going stir crazy.

He had been traveling with the slavers and their cargo for more than a month when he finally broke down and made a run for it when they were cleaning out the caravan. He waited until Vane and Romulous (the two biggest threats among the four) were occupied, Vane with cleaning and Romulous with dinner. Juliet was speaking with Veris about something, and nobody was looking in his direction.

Godric edged away from the group, putting the caravan between himself and the four.

Slowly, trying to make no sound whatsoever, he walked backwards several steps, waiting to see if anyone would follow.

The girl with the sad, wide eyes, who looked like there was nothing more to her body but skin and bones, followed his movements, looking frightened. But then again, there wasn't a time he hadn't seen her as meek as a mouse. Godric bit his lip, and extended his hand. It would be more difficult going with both of them than he would have alone, but gods damn it all, Godric was raised a gentleman.

She stared, and then moved forward, quiet as the mouse Godric had likened her too. She moved like she was scampering across the ground, like she was half animal.

Perhaps she had been in captivity long enough that she really was.

Hands met, eyes exchanged glances, and both drew a collective breath.

Godric smiled reassuringly, and the girl tightened her hold on him.

Godric nodded, and the two ran for it.

The two were caught within moments. It was Romulous again, looking furious. He froze the two with a spell that terrified the girl.

Godric was beaten. He closed his eyes, and could almost imagine it was his father who was kicking him, sending him flying into trees. Arctus had never used magic to punish him before, but Godric was no stranger to his father's fists or violence.

Arctus didn't need the crutch of magic to discipline his son.

_Father would have escaped already, _Godric thought as a foot collided with his stomach. He felt oddly distant from the pain. It didn't particularly matter.

Veris sun quietly to Godric as she bandaged him.

Nobody had ever sung to him before.

Godric fought an odd feeling in his chest as he listened. He didn't understand the words, but he let the music flow through him.

He did notice when his body no longer hurt. If he bothered looking, he would find a broken leg straightened, a mass of bruises gone, and many bloodied cuts healed up like month-old scars.

Then they fed him the drug again.

Reduced to the nausea and exhaustion that accompanied it, Godric weathered his pain as best as he could.

As the days wore on, Godric felt the wear of the last month. He hurt down to his very bones. He was hungry and cold all the time, and most of the time wet as well, because the slavers had developed the annoying game of dunking Godric into a river with their wands.

In Orleans, the four slavers sold most of their cargo. Godric watched through a hole in the wood as the girl with the wide, sad eyes was handed over to a merchant, and coins rattled into Romulous' purse.

White hot fury filled Godric then, burning like a second sun. The girl's face as she was dragged away burned into him.

He yelled, and slammed the side of the wagon with his fist, hoping the walls would give way. His fury was useless, and pointless. He wasn't able to do anything to save the girl. That night, he cried for the first time since his capture.

The slavers, with their hands free of their cargo, decided to spend some more time in Orleans. They also decided to enjoy some of their ill gotten gold.

Godric had been hoping for this, because it would give him a chance to get away. However, the slavers didn't go anywhere unless one of them had an eye on their precious wizard.

Two nights after they arrived in Orleans, Romulous threw open the doors to the caravan and froze Godric with a wave of his wand. He picked up the boy, disconnecting his manacles from the side of the wagon.

"It's time," Romulous said with a vicious smile. "Don't want you misbehaving in front of your new owner, now do we?"  
Godric tried to fight the paralysis spell, but he couldn't fight it even when he was free and he had his magic. How could he possibly be expected to fight it now?

He made no headway against the spell, and was forced to lie inert in his captors arms as he was carried off to be sold.

_I can't be sold – I'm a person damn it! _Godric wanted to yell. _Nobody can own me! _

Even if he could speak, the words would have fallen on deaf ears.

As Romulous, Vane, and Juliet headed towards a shady inn and followed a stairwell to the second floor that was guarded by a very large man in black, Godric felt his heart sink.

And he realized that it was possible for Gryffindors to feel afraid.

What he saw when Juliet pulled open the door of the room where he was to be sold made him want to vomit. It made him want to scream and rage until he was hoarse, to cry until he could shed no more tears. It made him want to drop to the floor and never move again.

There was a rushing sound in Godric's ears as he understood what true, icy fear can do to any person, even a Gryffindor. If it was in his ability, he would have turned tail and run as fast as he could from this evil face.

He had been carried into a nightmare.

Above him, just inside his field of vision, Romulous was grinning like a loon.

…..

**Review?**

**~InK**


	5. Musings and Moonlight

A History of Magic – Musings and Moonlight

**Hi, sorry for the delay! This chapter really didn't want to get written, and I've been a bit preoccupied lately. By the by, Luna is so much fun to write while I'm doped up on painkillers. Seriously. I just got my wisdom teeth removed. **

**Also, I'm sorry for the short chapter, but I decided to just put up Harry's perspective in two parts, since it will make oodles more sense that way. Hopefully, the next chapter won't be so much of a wait. **

**Enjoy!  
~InK**

…**..**

After five years of listening to Ron snoring, Harry had never quite appreciated how quiet his dorm room could be without his best friend.

But of course the redhead was still in the hospital wing with Hermione, recovering from their tangle with Death Eaters. Harry winced. It had been a fight he had brought them into. It was his fault they were hurt.

_No more, _he thought. He had made his decision that next time, he'd be ready. And he wouldn't drag his friends into this mess. He wouldn't let this happen. They had all survived this time, but only just.

His gut was still churning with the knowledge of what he had to do. He was torn between satisfaction that at the very least, the target on his back would be far away from anyone he cared about, and fear at what he knew he had to do, and yet couldn't.

Giving up sleep as a bad job, Harry pulled himself out of bed. Perhaps some time spent wandering around could clear his head.

He found himself headed down the silent hallways of the castle under the cover of darkness and his invisibility cloak. He was reminded of a Christmas long passed, the first night he had wandered around the castle at night.

Harry smiled bitterly as a wave of memories caught him. Sneaking out with Ron to fight a duel with Draco. Being caught by Hermione. Finding Neville outside the common room, and having to bring both of them kicking and screaming to the duel with them.

Harry chuckled, remembering Ron's threat to learn how to use a Bat Bogey hex just to get revenge on Hermione or Neville if they got the four of them caught.

Of course, it had been a trap. Draco had tipped off Filtch, and the four of them had run for it, straight into the forbidden third floor corridor, where they met Fluffy, the three-headed dog that Hagrid was so fond of.

He remembered going off on his own, under cover of the cloak, to find a mirror that showed him his family. He had never seen their faces, never seen what they had looked like, but he knew. How could the man who looked so much like Harry himself be anyone other than James Potter? And how could that woman with the kind smile and the almond shaped eyes that shone like there was some magic light behind them be anyone but his mum?

Of course they were his parents, and it hurtto see them there. Even now, years later, it still bloody _hurt _to know that he had stood in front of them, barely an arms length away, and would never be able to touch them. That he could never smell his mum's hair, or hug his father.

Harry didn't know where he was going, but somehow he ended up standing in front of a classroom door that seemed all too familiar. He pulled it open, and saw an empty, disused classroom that was entirely unchanged, since he had seen it last.

Harry stepped between the desks, moving towards the mirror at the back. Just as it had when he was eleven years old, the mirror caught his eye because it was so incongruous.

_The Mirror of Erised._

Harry stepped in front of it. Would he be able to see his parents again?

But there was a massive crack running lengthwise down the center of the mirror, and all Harry saw were two fragmented halves.

"Can't you sleep either Harry?"

"Hullo Luna," Harry said dutifully. He saw her step up beside him in the mirror. Their reflections stood side by side, separated by the crack that ran down the face of the mirror.

"Is this what the Room of Requirement becomes when you come here?" The girl asked, looking around.

"The Room…"  
Harry looked around. He hadn't paid attention to where he was going, perhaps he had just passed the room and found it, as he had when he was a first year.

The two stood there in silence, watching their reflections in the broken mirror.

"You've been here before," Harry said. Luna nodded. Her eyes were fixed on the glass still.

"So have you," she said.

"It's a pity about the mirror," Harry said.

"Oh yes, I thought that it could show me where daddy and I could find a colony of Crumple Horned Snorkacks."

Harry smiled.

"Did it help?"

"No."

Luna didn't elaborate, and Harry had no inclination to ask. He felt a painful tugging at his heart. The girl beside him would have died if it weren't for sheer dumb luck. If she had decided to follow him knowing the risks, then he could have lived with that.

But it was his folly that had led them to the Department of Mysteries. His friends had thought that he knew what he was doing.

"Listen, Luna, I'm really sorry about everything-"

"It was a grand adventure Harry," Luna said. "And we all survived."

"That was just luck, we all could have-"

"And we didn't," Luna said. Her voice was as firm as Harry had ever heard it. "Hate Voldemort, if you hate anyone, but not yourself. None of us hate or blame you for what happened, so you shouldn't."

She made it sound so simple, Harry thought. The girl beside him exhaled loudly and turned to face him.

"Harry Potter, haven't I told you before that all Voldemort wants to do is to drive you away from your friends and make you feel alone?"

Harry nodded.

"Don't let him win Harry," Luna whispered, taking his hand. Her voice was little more than a whisper. In the pale moonlight, she looked like an angel, with her blonde hair shining like a halo around her.

"Whatever happens, we must stick together."

She turned to leave, but when she reached the door, she paused.

"You'll see them again Harry," she said.

"Do you really think so?" Harry asked, tearing his eyes away from the place where he had once seen his parents. Luna nodded.

"I think so," she said. "I would hate to never see mum again."

"I think I know what you mean," Harry rasped. There was such sadness there, in Luna's normally pensive face.

"Don't let him win Harry."

"I'll do my best."

And then she was gone.

Harry turned back to the cracked mirror, examining his reflection.

The Gryffindor inside of Harry refused to give into the idea that he was scared, but…

Harry was scared. He stood there for a long time, wondering if his parents would appear if he stood there for any longer, but he only saw himself, as he was.

Something akin to panic filled him, and Harry turned away.

He was going to leave tonight. He had no choice; if he didn't leave, he would lose his nerve.

But he swore to himself that he would come back. Luna was right – he couldn't abandon his friends, and he would need them when the final confrontation came. Hell, he would need them every day before and after that, too. His heart was filled with pain at the thought of not meeting up with Ron and Hermione every day, of not dueling with the DA, of never seeing Neville grow into the confident young man that he had become…

It hurt. It hurt like nothing else had ever hurt in his entire life, and it was like cutting out a part of his soul.

He had to come back.

Harry turned away from the mirror, tearing himself away from his black thoughts. If he left on his broom, he could be gone long before dawn. He had already written his letters of farewell, and he would leave them on his bed for Ron to find in the morning.

He really hoped that they understood.


	6. Dark Wizards

A History of Magic – Dark Wizards

**Hi luvs! Did you all miss me? I hope so! This chapter is continued from the one before (which was really more of an interlude than anything, given the average length of these chapters), so it's still focusing on Harry. I finally got some time to write it up tonight, so here it is!**

**Sorry for the long wait... I know some of you might have thought this story was abandoned. In short, it's not. None of my stories are abandoned. Not ever. If I do, decide to take the plunge and abandon a story, I'll directly say so. But this fiction is not done yet. Heck, we're just getting started! Besides, this chapter is VERY VERY LONG. It's my apology for making you wait so long. So I better see tons of reviews. Seriously.**

**This goes out to all my wonderful reviewers… You all get an e-cookie! Much love to you, and all my readers,**

**~InK**

…**.**

The night rushed by in a flash of starry skies and cool air. Harry flew, his invisibility cloak wrapped tightly around his body. His trunk was shrunk and sitting in his pocket, and Hedwig was out hunting. She would find him when he landed.

He kept moving, knowing that he had to move as far and as fast as he could if he wanted to avoid being found.

Harry flew until the pre-dawn light illuminated the sky.

His hands were numb, and he was cold, even despite his warm clothing, but he reveled in the feeling of being airborne.

How long would it be before anyone noticed he was gone? The sun was just now beginning to peek over the horizon; in a few hours, his roommates would awaken, and find him missing... But he often went for walks in the morning, since the events at the Ministry. It might be lunchtime before anyone realized that he wasn't just missing, but that he was _gone. _

It would be chaos, if it got out. Dumbledore, Voldemort, and the Ministry would never stop searching for him.

Harry winced. Dumbledore was sure to be disappointed in him. To the old headmaster, it would seem like he was running away. Like he was deserting 'the cause.'

_But I'm not, _Harry told himself firmly. _I'm leaving the Dursley's and Hogwarts, but I'm going to train. I can't fight for them if I'm not strong enough._

And yet, even as he thought this, another, darker thought crossed his mind.

Why should he _have _to fight for them? Why should he, a teenager, be forced to champion the entire wizarding world – a world with plenty of fully trained and adult wizards and witches. Why should it be his responsibility?

_Because no one else can do it, _Harry reminded himself sternly. _Because no matter how I feel about the prophesy, Voldemort believes it, and he will be hell bent on killing me until one of us dies._

Grimly, Harry set his jaw, and decided that he needed to focus on something more productive.

He needed a disguise.

Harry pondered that issue as the sun crested the horizon, and the day began in earnest.

In the end, Harry decided that he would use a glamour to get through Diagon Alley and into Gringotts and take out some money before people realized he was missing. Dumbledore or Voldemort or both might set up someone at the bank to wait and see if he would come to pick up some funds.

So he would have to conclude any business he had at the bank before he was discovered missing.

Harry's mind was racing, trying to keep up with what he needed to do. He had to stop at Gringotts, and get both wizard and muggle money. He would need a disguise: Muggle hair dye and cosmetics could hide his most prominent features more permanently than a glamour could. He needed clothes - his Hogwarts robes would be a dead giveaway if he wore them in the Wizarding world, and he didn't exactly have much in the way of muggle clothes.

Mentally, Harry budgeted how much he would need. A couple pairs of robes, a new pair of trainers, and some slacks would do for now. There was no need to buy a whole new wardrobe just yet.

_I need to be able to use my wand, _Harry mentally added, frowning. He would bet his wand hand that some like Malfoy was able to practice magic over the summer, probably because of some loophole in the ministry regulations.

He also needed somewhere to stay. The Leaky Cauldron was out; the last time Harry had run away there, he had been found in minutes.

_And what about Knockturn Alley?_

The idea popped into Harry's head, and he nearly discarded it with a laugh before he examined it more carefully.

It was brilliant, really. Nobody would look for the savior of the Wizarding world in the seedy Knockturn Alley. And from what he had seen of the Alley, it was a place of secrets. It wouldn't be suspicious for him to want to move about without leaving a real name or a trail.

If he could find someone to help him figure out what to do about his wand, it would be there.

Of course, he couldn't do anything until he had gotten his disguise.

Harry was flying over London now. He had cast a spell to lead him in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, and he was almost there. He touched down in a nearby alley, and safely stowed his broomstick away.

It was only then that his exhaustion caught up with him. Harry stumbled, and had to grab the wall to stay steady.

He had been awake all night, and he hadn't exactly slept well since the events of the ministry. Nightmares plagued him, horrible possibilities of what could have happened. Every time he had closed his eyes, he watched his friends die, in increasingly horrible ways.

His newfound purpose had given him a buzz of adrenaline that kept him on his broom all night. Now, however, he felt like he was falling, like the ground was rushing up to meet him. He was bloody exhausted, but he forced himself to stand straight.

Harry refused to give in to his tired brain. There were things that needed to be done, quickly, before he allowed himself to sleep.

With a resigned sigh, he dug around in his trunk, grabbing one of the last of his energy drinks. The second night he had awoken screaming, unable to return to sleep, he had stayed up to brew batch after batch of the potion. He had only taken it for a few days, so there was no danger of addiction, but Harry vowed that this would be the last time he took the potion for a while. He would find some other way to sleep. He had to, because he no longer could afford the luxury of letting himself waste away in mourning.

His headache cleared as the potion took affect, and Harry pulled himself back together.

_Time to get moving, _he thought, and propelled himself forward.

Harry cast a glamour over his face. Like as not, the Ministry would be unable to detect any magic he did in either Alley, given how the entire area was almost literally steeped in magic. He left the alley, pulling up the hood of his cloak.

The Leaky Cauldron was empty, except for the wizened old bartender Tom. Harry nodded his head but didn't call out a greeting as he passed. He didn't know if his voice would give him away, but he wasn't going to take the chance.

It was odd, to see Diagon Alley so empty. Harry was used to pushing his way through loud and bustling crowds. Most of the shops appeared to be closed, and there were very few people in the Alley. Most walked quickly, and paid little heed to their surroundings. It was too early for much else.

There was a heavy fog that enveloped the Alley, and a light drizzle sprinkled down on his head. Combined with the nearly empty streets and the early hour, the weather gave Diagon Alley a thoroughly gloomy atmosphere. Everything felt quiet and muted somehow.

Harry moved through the Alley, making his way towards Gringotts bank. He was nervous – this cloak and dagger stuff was going to drive him mad, if he let it. He felt that every person he passed had to hear his pounding heart.

Harry gazed fondly up at the first building he had visited in the Wizarding world. How well he remembered his first steps in the world of magic. It had been an exhilarating, captivating day.

The bank was open, despite the early hour. Harry pulled open the door, and saw that while there was a much smaller staff of goblins working, there were indeed some staff on duty.

Harry cancelled the glamour and stepped up to a desk. He left his hood up though.

Several minutes later, Harry had rocketed through the bowls of Gringotts and arrived at his vault, a grumpy looking goblin by his side.

Harry was feeling harried and nervous. He only had so much time, after all, before someone came looking for him.

Harry had been doing mental calculations for a while, and quickly shoved coins into his pockets. He set aside some galleons to switch into muggle pounds, and asked the goblin where he could switch the currencies.

That done, Harry paused just inside the doors before turning to one of the free clerks.

"Is there any way I can access my funds without coming in to Gringotts?" He asked quietly. There was only one other customer, a young man in a muggle suit with a pair of expensive looking robes over them. Harry thought he might be a Ministry employee or something, so he kept a low profile.

"If you send an owl to our offices with a request for the funds with a drop of your blood and a wax imprint of your key, we will be able to send a charmed and secure owl back to you with the funds," the goblin said in a low, bored voice without even looking up from his papers.

"Oh, thanks!" Harry said. The goblin didn't even register Harry's comment, just kept reading. Harry backed away, but another thought occurred to him.

"Um, sir?"

"What?" The goblin demanded, finally looking up from his papers.

"Would I be able to do the same to request a full inventory of my vault?"

"Mr. Potter, all of our customers receive monthly statements of their assets," the goblin answered, sounding decidedly annoyed. "Now, if you would mind, I'm busy."

Harry felt his stomach drop into the floor.

_What?_

Harry hadn't had so much as a single owl from Gringotts. Ever.

So what was going on here?

"I haven't ever gotten an owl from Gringotts," Harry said, his brow furrowed in thought. "Do you think there's anyone I can talk to about that?"

The goblin looked exasperated, but he pressed a crystal on his desk.

"Please send the manager of the Potter vaults to the floor," he said. The crystal glowed for a moment with a bright blue light, before fading.

Harry's interest was piqued.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Communication crystal, standard issue," the goblin said through gritted teeth. "Your awfully curious for a human."

"It's part of my charm," Harry said with a brief smile. The goblin paused and looked up at him. Harry swore he had seen a similar look on Snape's face at some point.

"Sorry," Harry said. The goblin grunted. A moment later, another goblin appeared at Harry's side.

"Mr. Potter, I'm manager Urok, what seems to be the problem?"

"I need to discuss my vault with you," Harry said. "Is there any place where we can talk more privately?"

"The conference room is free currently, though I must warn you that I have a meeting with a manager in Egypt in twenty minutes; I normally only meet with clients on appointment."

"I understand, and I thank you for your time," Harry said, being as polite as possible. His uncle Vernon had entertained many managers and higher ranking members of his department, and he knew from listening in on those conversations that they hated to have their time wasted needlessly.

"Well then, follow me," manager Urok said, and led the way off the floor, and down a corridor. He opened the door to a posh and elegant conference room with a long wooden table.

"What is it that you needed to speak about?"

Harry took a deep breath, ordering his thoughts.

"This morning I learned that it is standard Gringotts procedure to send your clients missives with their account statements on a monthly basis," Harry began. "I have never received such a letter, and I was wondering if you could shed some light on that?"

Manager Urok frowned.

"As a minor, your guardian in the magical world should have been receiving those statements for you, up until your eleventh birthday, when children come into their second magical maturity."

"Who would be receiving those letters for the Potter accounts?" Harry asked.

"In cases such as yours, the magical guardian is usually appointed by the ministry," Urok said. He waved his hand and a stack of papers appeared in front of him. He read through a few of them.

"Yes, here it is, Albus Dumbledore was named your magical guardian, and has been receiving those statements for you."

Harry bit down a surge of annoyance. He knew that the headmaster had probably been trying to help him by not needlessly complicating his life, but it would have been nice to be told what was going on. Holding back his irritation, Harry nodded.

"Can we change that so that only I would be getting those statements?" Harry asked instead.

"Of course," Urok said, and with another wave of his hand, changed something on the paper. "Was there anything else?"

"Can we make an appointment to talk some time this coming week?" Harry asked. "I would like to discuss the general state of the vault with you, and learn anything about Gringotts that I might have overlooked. If you have an hour or so…?"

"Perhaps that would be best," Urok said thoughtfully. He conjured a calendar. "Yes, I have a two hour block next Monday, we can meet then to discuss any issues you find pertinent. Now, I must bid you a good day, Mr. Potter, I have some papers to get in order before my morning meeting."

"Of course, thank you for taking the time to speak with me today," Harry replied respectfully. Urok nodded, and vanished with a crack, taking the papers with him.

Harry left the bank, feeling perturbed, even though there was no reason for him to feel that way. From what Urok described, it was perfectly normal for an adult to be taking these letters for a young wizard or witch without a family.

It was the fact that Dumbledore had never talked to him about his affairs, or the fact that he was Harry's magical guardian that was weighing on his mind. The sheer number of things that his headmaster had concealed from him was starting to leave a bitter taste on Harry's tongue. Something was going on here, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

It was now six in the morning, and some of the other shops were starting to open for the day. Harry cast the glamour again, even though he had kept his hood up through his whole foray into the Alley.

Harry stumbled out into muggle London, and walked for several blocks before he cancelled the illusion over his face. He ducked into a secondhand clothes shop, and quickly picked up a handful of shirts and trousers that were much more stylish and fitting than Dudley's old clothes. He even found a serviceable pair of trainers, which was good, because his last pair were barely holding themselves together.

At a drugstore, Harry browsed the section with muggle makeup, picking up foundation to hide his scar, and hair dye. He was just heading to the register when he saw something labeled 'hair gel,' and decided to pick some up as well.

Now armed with a new wardrobe and disguise, Harry went off in search of breakfast. He grabbed a bite at a nearby McDonalds, and used their loo to change his appearance. He left Dudley's clothes in the trash, where they rightfully belonged.

Finished, Harry stared at his appearance. He doubted anyone who didn't know him well would recognize him. His hair lay tame for the first time in his life. It was orange, but not the bright color that he had associated with the Weasley's (not that there was anything wrong with the Weasley's hair, in fact he rather liked it, but that wasn't the point) – this was more of a auburn color, a mix of orange and brown, and it favored him, highlighting the green in his eyes.

Harry fingered his glasses with distaste. He wondered if there was anything he could do about them – pick up a new pair, or something. His round glasses were a connection to Harry Potter, and as soon as he left this loo, he couldn't be Harry Potter any longer.

Of course, it was just glasses. With his dyed hair and without a visible scar, only his friends from Hogwarts would be able to recognize him.

Harry decided that at some point he was really going to have to replace his old glasses, though it wasn't a major hadn't been to an eye doctor since he was six, and his primary school teacher had gotten on his aunt's case about his awful vision. And it wasn't like he had spent much time in muggle London ever.

Deciding that he could deal with that issue later, because he already had enough bloody problems, Harry left the loo.

Feeling much less conspicuous, Harry walked back to the Leaky Cauldron, and droned his cloak over his muggle clothes as he entered. The sky was promising much heavier rain soon, and he only hoped it would hold off.

The Alley was still far less crowded than Harry was used to, but there were many more people than there had been that morning.

Harry headed through the alley, moving towards Knockturn with purpose. He drew himself up to his full height, and pulled up the hood of his cloak.

If Diagon was quiet, Knockturn Alley was deserted.

Harry stepped like a ghost, silent in the fog. He slipped into the first robes store he found, a small, almost quaint shop. A bell chimed as he closed the door behind him. After a second, a female voice echoed towards him.

"Wait a second, I'll be right there!"

"Yeah, sure," Harry called back. The shop was small, but well kept. It was nothing like what he might have expected from his previous forays into Knockturn.

Borgin and Burkes had been sinister and just plain… dark. This store was neat and full of light and life. Racks of robes bursting with every color imaginable lined the walls, which were painted a light yellow. The floor was paneled redwood, which went well with the rest of the coloring.

There was an open space in the middle of the shop, with stands that Harry assumed were used for fittings. Near the back of the store, there was a flight of twisting, spiraling stairs made of delicate metal. There was a wooden desk next to them, with several binders neatly piled on top of it.

A head full of blonde hair poked through the upper bars.

"Morning luv! It'll just be a mo'. You're lucky, I was just about to close up!"

A few seconds later, the full girl emerged. She couldn't be more than a few years older than Harry, blonde and curvy, with bright blue eyes.

"I'm Elise," she said, extending a hand.

"Jonathan," Harry lied easily. "Jonathan Collins."

"Alright Jonathan Collins, what can I do for you this morning?" Elise asked with an easy smile. She was absolutely gorgeous, and Harry felt himself going kind of slack jawed.

_Come off it, you can't ignore the opposite sex forever. Where's that Gryffindor courage of yours? _Harry demanded of himself. He steeled himself, cleared his throat, and decided that at sixteen, he was old enough to talk to a girl without blushing.

"I need robes," Harry answered. "Three pairs or so ought to do it."

"Did you have any kind of preference, style-wise?" Elise asked, moving towards the desk by the stairs.

"I'm rather hopeless in that regard," Harry admitted. He didn't mind wearing secondhand muggle clothes, so long as they fit. "Do you think you could give me a hand? All I really need is plenty of mobility."

Elise quirked an eyebrow at that statement. The gesture was so full of innuendo that Harry turned pink.

"Hey there, whatever's on your mind, I guarantee that's not what I need," he stammered. Elise sized him up, and then sighed wistfully.

"Pity," she said. "You and I could have had fun together. Anyway, robes. Three pairs that will allow for movement, and of course style. Up on the stool you."

Harry obeyed, and Elise flicked her wand at him, and measuring tapes conjured out of nowhere.

"Do you run this place all by yourself?" he asked.

"Yeah," Elise said proudly. "It used to be a family thing, with my mom and all my aunts working on robes and everything. I'd help out on the weekends, doing small repairs, helping them out. Now there's just me to run things, but I make it work."

"I'm sorry," Harry said, not knowing what else to say.

"Oh don't be," Elise said, smacking him lightly on the arm. "They went down against the Order fighting, and that's what counts, isn't it? I learned to live with it. No, what was hard was having to salvage the rubble of this place and fight through years of court documents so that I could take ownership of it."

Harry had tensed as Elise talked, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Listen to me, I've already become a yammering old maid," she muttered under her breath, and swore. "Sorry, robes. What price range were you looking for?"

"I'm not looking for anything super posh, but money shouldn't be a major issue," Harry said.

"Oh, so he's handsome _and _rich," Elise teased as she flicked her wand again and the tape measurers disappeared.

"I'm hurt," Harry said with a grin of his own. "Here I thought you were just attracted to my exceptional charm."

"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we?" Elise shot back, still smiling at him. "Do you have any preferences for fabric?"

Harry stared at her, a little nonplussed. The shopkeeper smirked.

"Oh of course not, you're a boy."

"Isn't that sexist?" Harry asked.

"So?" Elise asked with a shrug. "In my experience, most boys are thick about fashion, unless they're a ponce, or their name is Malfoy. Or both, really."

Harry stared at her for a second, and then a giggle burst through his lips. Once he started, however, it didn't stop. He kept laughing so hard he slipped off the stool and landed hard on his arse in the store.

Elise rushed forward, still laughing, pulling him up.

"So we can cross off 'coordinated' on your list of good qualities," Elise joked.

"Hey!"

"I just call them as I see them love," Elise answered.

"Thanks," Harry answered breathlessly.

Elise grinned at him.

"So the way this goes is that if you want my help, you have to ask for it," the girl said.

"Seriously?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

_No, you look like a bloody goddess, _Harry thought suddenly, and started. The thought threw him seriously off track for a moment before he forced himself to concentrate on what the girl had said.

"Right, so I am a bit thick when it comes to fashion," Harry allowed. "Seeing as I'm neither a ponce, nor a Malfoy, could you please help me?"

Elise grinned like Christmas had come early.

"Of course! I should have your robes done within a couple of days. It's been a slow week, and your order shouldn't be too difficult to handle."

"Fantastic," Harry said. Elise helped him to his feet.

"Well, Jonathan Collins, it was wonderful to meet you, and I would love to take you out for coffee sometime."

It occurred to Harry then that he had just carried out an entire discussion with a very pretty girl without once putting his foot in his mouth. In fact, he had felt perfectly at ease through most of their conversation.

And he was being asked on a date. By a very pretty girl. A pretty girl who wanted to go on a date with him.

Harry's mind seemed stuck on that one track for a moment before he shook himself.

"Um, yeah," he said, and mentally smacked himself. Smooth. He het his confident persona take over again. "Sure. I'd love to."

"Excellent," Elise said. "Lunch tomorrow? Where are you staying?"

"Er," Harry said, unsure if he should admit that he was staying in Knockturn, and that he didn't yet know where he was going to be sleeping the night. As it turned out, he didn't have to. Elise just rolled her eyes at him.

"Right, of course you're new and hopeless, I should have suspected," she said with a hint of exasperation. "You'll want The Tea Leaf. Three streets down on your right. They'll have a room you can rent."

"Thank you," Harry said passionately. His brain tripped over the thought that Elise was still holding his hand, and smiling like the sun.

"Er, you don't by any chance have Veela blood, do you?" he asked apprehensively as a thought occurred to him. Her flowing blonde hair, the alluring smile... A dark shadow crossed over Elise's face.

"And if I did?" she demanded dangerously. Harry immediately held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"It wouldn't matter really," he grumbled, trying not to sound too relieved. It wasn't that he had anything against Veela, he just didn't fancy going on a date with a girl just because she was able to charm him into wanting her. "Just thought it would explain some things is all, like the irresistible beauty."

Immediately, the dangerous flash vanished from the girls' eyes.

"Oh you're just a sweetheart, aren't you," she said with a grin. She kissed him on the cheek. "No love, I'm no Veela. I am a metamorphmagus though."

Harry grinned.

"Well love, to use your phrasing, I must be off," he said, with a bow he hoped came off as gallant rather than silly. From the giggle he heard from Elise, it wasn't working. But her laugh was appreciative rather than mocking, so he counted it as a win anyway.

"Do try not to get lost in Knockturn would you? I haven't had a date this entertaining in years!"

Acting on impulse, Harry took Elise's hand and kissed her knuckles, like a nobleman in an old muggle movie.

"My dear Elise, you have never had a date like me," he said with as much seriousness as he could muster.

"Don't set yourself up for failure now," Elise retorted cheekily. Harry held a hand to his heart.

"Oi! You wound me woman!"

"Oh just get going, you, I'm sure you have quite a busy day, and I have robes to get working on. Begone, pest!"

"As you wish, my fair lady Elise," Harry said, and exited, feeling quite pleased with himself.

He was wearing a rather goofy smile as he walked down Knockturn, watching the shops with interest. Even the rain couldn't dampen his mood; he felt like he was walking on air! Like he was flying!

It wasn't until he was halfway to the inn that Elise had mentioned before the full impact of one of her statements hit him.

Her family had died.

They had been killed because they fought against the Order of the Phoenix.

It was clear to him that Elise was a dark witch, and probably a powerful one.

On the other hand, he hadn't had someone he could be this free with in years. Elise didn't care who he was – she liked him because he was just himself, not Harry Potter or the Boy-Who-Lived or whatever other silly titles they were giving him these days.

And it was a wonderful, wonderful thing.

Even his interactions with Ron and Hermione hadn't been that carefree, not in ages. It seemed that lately, all the three of them did was argue, and it was exhausting. It was even more exhausting than the many nights without sleep that Harry had endured at Hogwarts. It was nice to have someone to laugh and joke with. To dispense with the world outside for just a while, and be the people they were.

Most of all, however, Elise filled him with a profound sense of hope. She had lost everything, but she had moved on, and done something truly special. If she could move on from loosing her family, then maybe so could he. Maybe it wouldn't always hurt so much to think of Sirius.

Maybe things did get better.

And maybe dark magic was more than just killing and violence. Come to think of it, what _did _dark wizards fight for? Harry didn't know anything about dark wizards, except that they were against muggleborns and muggles. But Elise had never asked him whether or not he was a pureblooded, and she had seemed nothing like any dark wizard or witch he had ever met.

Elise intrigued him in a way he couldn't quite explain, and while there were butterflies fluttering in his stomach at the thought of their little meeting tomorrow (he wouldn't call it a date, because Harry Potter was absolutely hopeless at dates, and he doubted Jonathan Collins was much better), he was excited. He wanted to learn more from this witch.

Harry made his way through the foggy streets, following Elise's directions. He found the inn easily; it wasn't super posh or anything, but it wasn't slummy either. It was out of the way, and quiet, and Harry liked it immediately.

Harry grabbed a barmaid on his way back out, and casually asked if she knew where he could find a bookstore that could sell him something on ministry regulations. The girl was incredibly helpful, and rattled off a handful of names and locations Harry had to do some quick mental juggling to keep straight in his head.

The first few shops he visited that afternoon were mostly unhelpful. They sold used books, and the ministry guides looked like they were a century old.

Unfortunately, even the newer texts weren't much good. From what Harry understood, unless you were practicing magic in a building protected by a Fidelius Charm, the Ministry would still be able to track magic done by your wand. The tracking spells had some trouble distinguishing underage magic in areas of high magical concentration as well, but that was equally unhelpful; Harry had no access to a building hidden by the Fidelius, because Grimmauld Place was still nominally the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, and Harry needed to stay away from wizards. His disguise as Jonathan Collins wouldn't last forever.

Harry came to the decision that he was going to have to resort to something illegal, like removing the spell altogether. That would work, if he could find someone willing and able to do it.

At the fourth shop, Harry had some luck however.

The place looked like a cluttered pawn shop. It was crammed full of tall shelves stuffed with junk. Globes of light that seemed to be made of crystal floated among the rows, illuminating the shop with their light. Harry examined one of them with interest.

The whole shop gave off an aura of secrets and hidden things. Best of all, from what Harry could see most of the stuff in here was thoroughly illegal. Hidden in between innocent tomes about tending plants, Harry found a book with a stain that was nastily familiar to blood.

Another book detailed a list of dark curses that could be used for torturing one's victim. Harry felt satisfied that he was finally making some progress.

"Can I help you?"

Harry almost jumped, but he remained still before moving deliberately. He hadn't heard the shopkeeper sneak up behind him, but he wasn't going to show it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall, broad man who looked incredibly intimidating.

Conjuring a mental image of Lucius Malfoy, Harry straightened and fixed his gaze on the man.

"I find myself with a rather pressing problem," he said, calmly and confidently. "There's a tracking spell on my wand. I want it removed."

"I see," the man said with a knowing nod. "I do offer that service, but the price…"

"I have gold enough to adequately compensate you for your time and service," Harry cut in. He needed to establish himself as a hardened pureblood, because he couldn't afford to be thrown out of the shop now.

"Let me have a look then," the man said, holding out his hand. Harry hesitated just for a moment before drawing his wand and handing it to the older man. The shopkeeper cast some spells on the wand and then swore, shoving it back at Harry.

"I want no part in this!" the shopkeeper snapped with narrowed eyes. "I don't remove ministry spells on wants. You're probably an auror, come here to find some reason to arrest me, I won't have you in this shop!"

Harry laughed. The irony was just too good. He could hear the ghost of Professor McGonnagall, shouting in his ear that she would give her level best to ensure that Harry made it into the auror program, even if she had to coach him nightly.

Did he really want to be an auror anymore? He had chosen the idea on a fancy, thinking it would be cool. But did he really want to spend the rest of his life fighting? He filed that thought away for later, and address the shopkeeper.

"I'm not an auror," he said. "Look, what do I have to do to prove it?"

The man eyed him carefully.

"You could swear it under Veritaserum."

"Anything else?" Harry asked, because the last thing he needed was to have this man ask what his name was while he wouldn't be able to avoid answering. No way he was putting his secrets in someone else's hands like that. Maybe he was being paranoid, but it was much easier to avoid the situation entirely than to have to deal with the repercussions of spilling his guts to this man.

"Its that or you get the hell out of my shop."

"Seriously, I'm not going to give you leave to ask me whatever the bloody hell you want, and I doubt most of your clients do either, so tell me what alternative you have in mind."

The shopkeeper considered him for a minute.

"Crucio me," he said. Harry couldn't cover his gape in time.

"Seriously, that's not funny," he said.

"It wasn't meant to be," the shopkeeper said. "No auror would use an unforgivable, and if you try rat on me, I'll rat on you."

Harry stared. There was no way in hell that he was going to use the bloody Cruciatus curse on this man, that was mad! He'd wind up in Azakaban! He would just find some other way to get around the tracking spell.

But even as he thought that, he knew he didn't have a choice. There was no legal way to get around the spell, and he doubted he'd be lucky enough to find another shopkeeper who would do this for him.

Knowing he would hate himself forever for it, Harry raised his wand. He remembered Bellatrix's advice about the curse and a scowl overtook his features. He conjured up all his hate towards the psycho bitch that had killed his godfather, all his resentment towards Dumbledore for being left at Privet drive, and all his anger towards the self centered megalomaniac that had torn his family apart, and said the spell.

His voice was like ice, and the power coursed through him like a river. It was unstoppable and ruthless. It was amazing. Harry gasped as he watched the light leave his wand.

The shopkeeper didn't scream, but he fell to his knees. Harry, high on the pure _power _that coursed through him, didn't notice for a long moment. It was like being under the Imperius, like being taken over by someone else. It was like being possessed.

Something deep inside of him stirred, brought to life by the dark curse. It pulled and pushed at him, spurring him onwards. Clinically, Harry increased the power of the curse, and heard the shopkeeper scream.

The sound wrenched Harry out of his daze and he immediately broke the curse, shuddering and gasping for air. The shopkeeper stood.

"Your first taste of the Cruciatus then?" he smirked, seeing Harry clutching a shelf for support.

"And if it was?" Harry snapped back, moody. But the man was grinning, all mistrust gone. Harry guessed it was because the man now had the means to put him in prison for the rest of his life.

_I just did an unforgivable curse. I just Crucioed someone, and enjoyed it._

Harry was freaking out. He was seconds away from totally breaking down.

"I'm Dylan Thompson then," the shopkeeper said, extending a hand.

"Jonathan Collins," Harry muttered, grabbing it. Dylan ruffled his hair.

"Go fix yourself a cuppa while I work on the wand," he ordered. "Tea's by the kettle in back, go on then."

Harry just stared mutely, but he nodded.

_Shit, shit SHIT I'm going to hell. Do wizards believe in hell? Probably just Azkaban. Bloody everlasting HELL I just crucioed a man. I caused him pain and I liked it! What the bloody hell is wrong with me?_

His hands were shaking so badly, he dropped the mug of tea. It crashed to the ground, hot tea and porcelain spreading across the floor. Harry stared at the mess.

_What does it mean, that I _liked _causing that man pain?_

Harry sank to the floor, staring at the mess with unseeing eyes.

There had been that alien power inside of him, answering the dark power of the curse. What was that? Was it his connection to Voldemort, surging again?

But it hadn't felt anything like a connection to good old Voldie, Harry mused. This power was… it was different. Harry couldn't have voiced the distinction if he could, but there was a perceptible difference between the power the curse had awoken within him, and the magic he used on a regular basis at Hogwarts. He could _feel _it, deeper than his skin, deeper than his very bones. It throbbed within him now, like a second heartbeat. He fought valiantly to control it, to hold it back. The power was immense and frightening.

Was this what dark magic was? Was Harry a dark wizard?

Harry flinched at the thought. Savior of the Wizarding world, a dark wizard? It was absurd. He was a Gryffindor. His parents had fought for Dumbledore. _He _had fought for Dumbledore.

He couldn't be a dark wizard. He just couldn't.

"Reparo."

The words cut through the haze in Harry's mind, and he looked up to see Dylan Thompson there.

"Here now, what's this?" the shopkeeper asked, frowning. Harry didn't answer, just looked up at Dylan with wide eyes.

They were a bright gold color covering both the irises and the whites of his eyes. Dylan stared at the boy and swore. He blinked once, and his own eyes mirrored Harry's. He could see the dark magic the boy had unleashed, fighting against the boys unstable control.

A dark wizard brought up as a light wizard, Dylan thought grimly. That was the only way the boy could have this kind of abysmal lack of control over his power.

Gently, he coaxed the magic back, back under Jonathan's control.

The gold subsided from the teenager's eyes, and they returned to their bright, piercing green.

"Jonathan," Dylan said, shaking his arm. "Jonathan, can you hear me?"

Harry blinked, and shook himself. Wordlessly, he stood.

"I… what was that?"

"That was your dark magic," Dylan said, sitting Harry down and pouring him a fresh cup of tea. "And you need to learn how to control it boy."

"Don't call me that," Harry said blankly, reflexively.

Dylan ran a hand through his hair, staring at the teenager. He didn't need this now, but if he let the teenager go off on his own, he would end up hurting someone. Actually, scratch that. He'd hurt a lot of people.

"Jonathan, I need you to listen to me," Dylan said firmly. "You _must _find a tutor for your dark magic, or it will kill you."

"I'll be fine," Harry said, still sounding somewhat distant. He took a sip of tea though.

Dylan stared at him, watching the teenager mechanically put the cup back on the table. Grimly, Dylan set his jaw and made his choice. With a wave of his wand, he conjured ropes that bound Harry to the chair.

"Hey, what the hell?" Harry shouted, struggling against the magical bonds.

"You're staying there until I get your oath that you will seek out a teacher as soon as possible," Dylan said.

"Let me go you bastard!"

"I will, when I have your word."

"Not bloody likely, considering you have me tied to a sodding chair!"

"Give me your oath, or you can stay tied to the sodding chair," Dylan said calmly. "I won't be responsible for you loosing control and killing someone. You almost lost control of the curse you used on me today."

Harry blanched.

Dylan was right.

There was something inside of him, something dark and terrible and frighteningly familiar. If he gave it any leeway, it would break free, kill him and everyone around him.

On the other hand, practicing dark magic would only give it more chances to break free.

_And more chances for me to become stronger than it is, _Harry thought, determined. He needed to find another school anyway, and going to a school where dark magic was taught would fulfill his oath.

And never let it be said that a Gryffindor was afraid of a challenge, after all.

"Alright then, I swear on my bloody magic to find a tutor for dark magic as soon as I can, you wanker," Harry said. Dylan smiled as if Harry hadn't just been cursing at him at all.

"Great then!"

With a wave of his wand, the ropes were gone. Harry warred with the urge to tackle Dylan to the ground. Unfortunately, he recognized that he would have never listened had Dylan taken any other course, and so he couldn't attempt to pound the sanctimonious arse into the floor of his own shop.

_Maturity really sucks sometimes, _Harry reflected darkly.

"Fine, are we good then?"

"Yes, we are," Dylan said. His mouth was still creased in a frown, but he knew better than to push the boy on this subject right now. "Your wand is now fully untraceable by the ministry. Welcome to obscurity, Mr. Collins."

Harry made a face and put his wand in his jacket.

"Right, how much do I owe you?"

Dylan named his price, and Harry raised an eyebrow.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" he asked.

"Take it or leave it."

Harry didn't bother arguing, he just wanted to be done with this already. Besides, this was technically a super illegal service. Harry's search had revealed to him just how much trouble you could get into for ridding a wand of its ministry tracking charms.

Grudgingly, he paid Dylan a good portion of the Gringotts funds he had taken out this morning. At this rate, he would be taking more money out of his account by the end of the day: he was just happy that The Tea Leaf was a relatively cheap inn, and so his purse wasn't strung too badly. He was going to need to check his statement to know for sure, but Harry had no intention of burning through his money this summer.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Dylan said with a satisfied grin. Harry grumbled and left.

It was early afternoon, and Harry decided to explore the alley for a bit. Only a handful of the stores were open, and Harry surmised that many of them opened only at night. He made a mental note to explore the Alley in the evening.

Harry had lunch at a small café that served surprisingly good Indian food. Harry had never had curry before; the Dursley's wouldn't have taken to such an exotic dish, and he had never seen it on the Hogwarts tables. It was delicious.

He had planned to continue exploring the alley after lunch, but the energy potion was beginning to wear off, and Harry was starting to feel the drag of exhaustion once more. D

Deciding that he shouldn't fight the inevitable, and already firm in his conviction that he wasn't going to take the potion again, Harry retired to The Tea Leaf. For the first time since he had watched his godfather died, he grabbed four hours of uninterrupted sleep.

He awoke feeling groggy, but better than he had in a while. The victory of not waking up with a nightmare in the back of his mind was enough to elate him, but Harry was sure that it was exhaustion that had finally gotten the better of him, rather than any actual improvement dealing with his godfather's death.

It was now early evening. By now, Dumbledore and the Order would know that he was gone. Harry figured that Dumbledore would hide it from the ministry, but how long would that last? How many older siblings and parents of Hogwarts students worked for the ministry? A single word to any of them would top Fudge off.

A thrill of anticipation ran through the teenager. There was a small part in him that reveled in the rebellion, just for the love of rebellion. A much larger part breathed a sigh of relief in his newfound independence.

Harry was still grieving. He needed time to move on, and come to grips with what happened, and for him, the best way for him to move past everything was to become proactive.

Jonathan Collins was proactive, and he was exactly the persona that Harry needed. In many ways, he was 'just Harry.'

Harry examined Jonathan's reflection in the mirror. His face was the same as Harry's, but without the dark hair, his features seemed to fit better in his face. For the first time, Harry looked at his reflection and saw more of Lilly than of James; it was her stubborn chin that jutted underneath full lips. True, he had James' aristocratic high cheeks, but they framed Lilly's delicate nose.

With his hair lying flat, Harry was almost relieved to see that he looked very little like James. What he had discovered about his father this past year had shocked him greatly: he despised bullies. He couldn't get over the fact that James had treated Snape the exactly Dudley had treated Harry.

Jonathan's face scrunched up in distaste, and he put that thought away for later examination. His father could wait.

Straightening up, Harry allowed the persona of Jonathan Collins to take over. He wanted to take a look around the Alley at night, to see what secrets it hid from the daylight hours.

Harry grabbed dinner in the common room downstairs. He kept his ears peeled for any gossip, any hint that the world at large knew that Harry Potter was missing. He didn't hear anything, so he assumed that for now, his secret was safe. He would have to keep on the lookout for Order members though, not that anyone apart from Dung would venture into Knockturn, and Dung was barely sober enough to recognize Harry when he had his own hair.

Knockturn had come to life. As the sun set, Harry watched lights along the road turning on. Magical orbs with bright colors drifted between the stores, looking for all the world like faerie lights. Many people walked the streets with their faces covered, but others walked with their faces bared in the moonlight.

Among the throngs moved men and women in all black. They carried themselves with an air of authority, and it didn't take much to guess that they were police of some kind or other.

Harry felt like he was eleven years old again, entering Diagon for the first time. He wished he had about a hundred more eyes to see everything around him. Shopkeepers shouted out at potential customers in the narrow streets. Bright colors of clothes hung in the window of one shop. Another building with a shaded door had no windows, but a sign painted on the door in a red ink that looked uncomfortably like blood. Another shop had wooden posts outside where bats roosted happily, just waking up as the sun began to set, and yet another building boasted that it was a rug store (Harry suspected that it sold flying carpets, and was strongly tempted to go inside and follow up on that suspicion, just to see a real flying carpet). One shop had a glowing sign that glared "JUDAS DISCOUNT WANDS," while another building (possibly an apothecary) had a sign that read "SALE ON NUNDU FUR."

"Nundu fur, honestly, who does he think he's kidding?" a witch was muttering under her breath as she gave the sign a disgusted look. "Like anyone would believe that old Riley could afford Nundu fur."

Harry spotted yet another shop that seemed to sell nothing except glowing lights in every color ("SAFE MAGICAL LAMPS FOR KIDS!"). He smiled to see a shop that sold dangerous magical plants, thinking of Neville.

People moved through the streets in packed throngs. The Alley was alive with movement and sound, with sellers shouting over each other. Many of the shops were nothing more than well constructed booths that could be magically closed during the day.

And there were the smells. They wafted out of inns and taverns, and from carts posted at random in the street. He smelled spices of every kind, and saw sweets of every kind and color, all made to order.

It was an enticing, encompassing nightlife. How could he had ever thought that this place was dingy? It was so full of life and wonder.

True, there was the odd building which looked closed off and truly dark, like Borgin and Burkes. Most of these were like the store that had attracted Harry earlier – they were fronts for illicit activity. But many more of the places were just… well, magical really. They were almost more magical than Diagon Alley, if Harry was honest with himself.

"Wow," he breathed.

Ducking between a merchant who was swearing on his mother's grave that he could sell Harry an amulet that would protect him from vampires, and another who wanted to give him what he assumed was some kind of absurdly dangerous magical drug, Harry moved through the crowd.

He was almost overwhelmed. This kind of chaos would swallow Harry up in any normal situation. He would cower and prove that he didn't belong there.

Harry wrapped himself in his persona, and strode through the crowds. He was Jonathan Collins, a dark wizard, and he belonged here.

Because Harry was going to get some answers.

For fifteen years, whenever a problem had come up, Hermione (the one who usually had an answer for everything) would have exactly one response:

"Go to the library."

And so Harry decided that he would take Hermione's advice, and came to the conclusion that he needed to look for books on dark magic. He was beginning to suspect that dark magic wasn't just limited to the unforgivable curses. There was something else, something deeper, something fundamentally different about dark magic, and damn it, Harry was going to figure it out. This wasn't just about magic designed to hurt, and magic designed to help, because any spell you could think of could be used for good or ill. No, the classification of dark magic went far beyond what was taught about it at Hogwarts.

The small bookstore where Harry chose to begin his search was near the end of one of the streets, illuminated by a pair of blue globes. They gave off a soft light.

Harry pulled open the door and went it. The shop was quiet, the nice quiet that descended on libraries and other places of quiet and calm. Harry didn't love books nearly as much as Hermione, but he had spent much of his childhood hiding from Dudley in the library. For him, these places of learning were havens, and always would be.

"Hello?"

Harry turned, and found himself looking at a little girl of seven or eight.

"Hi," Harry said with a smile.

"Are you looking for a book?" the girl asked. She had long blonde hair, and big blue eyes. Harry was reminded of Luna instantly, though this little girl didn't have the air of distinct dottiness that Luna carried with her.

"Yeah, I am," Harry responded.

"Which book?"

"I don't rightly know," Harry said with a sheepish grin.

"How can you look for a book without knowing which one you want?" the girl demanded, looking cross, like a young version of McGonagall. "That's just silly."

Though she did have a point.

"Amy, who's there?" a male voice asked. A man with the girl's wide blue eyes came around one of the bookshelves.

"He's looking for a book, but he doesn't know which one it is," Amy said, folding her arms.

"I'm looking for a book on dark magic," Harry said calmly, meeting the man's eyes.

"Can't help you with that," the man said. "Ain't no shop in the alley that will sell a book on dark magic to a stranger, and we stopped carrying them here years back, so you might as well get."

Harry sighed mentally.

"Is there anywhere I could go in the Alley to find something like that?" he asked.

"Fraid not," the man said. He actually did look like he was sorry. "There's few places in Wizarding Britain left for our kind. You might find that kind of book in Moscow, or perhaps some places in India. I know a handful of shops in Amsterdam that might help you."

"But of course I would have to go through the Ministry to get a Portkey or have them log my signature in the floo," Harry muttered under his breath. "And I'd have to justify why I was going into an area that is a well known stronghold of dark magic."

"There's a ward around the island that would track broom movement too," the man said helpfully.

"Wow, I feel safer already," Harry muttered sarcastically. He was starting to appreciate just how little anyone in magical Britain understood dark magic. His already low opinion of the Ministry of Magic was dropping lower by the second. The man laughed.

"You're new to this side of the fence, aren't you," he said with a rueful smile. "I'd like to tell you that it gets easier, but I'd be lying through my teeth. I'm Edgar Rosier, child, and this is my daughter Amy, as you've heard."

"I'm Jonathan Collins," Harry said, shaking Edgar's hand. It took every ounce of control in his body not to react to the discovery that this man was related to a known Death Eater. His encounter with Elise that morning had left him with a taste of curiosity on his tongue, and he was inclined to hear Edgar out. The Gryffindor within him wouldn't let him write the man and his daughter off with a glance. "Nice to meet you sir."

"Don't sir him, he works for a living," Amy said in tandem with her dad, and Harry grinned. She was quite possibly the most adorable child he'd ever seen, not that he'd ever really spent much time around children.

"As you wish," Harry said, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"I have the kettle on in back, would you like to join me?" Edgar asked. "Don't get many customers these days, not at a small shop like ours."

"Alright, thank you," Harry answered. He wanted to find out more from this man. The three of them settled in a back room, a cup of tea in front of each of them, though Amy's cup was mostly milk.

"So what exactly is dark magic?" Harry asked, jumping right into it. "What's the difference between it and light magic? Why are people afraid of it?"

"Dark magic is of the Earth, light magic of the sky," Amy said simply, brightly.

"What does that mean?" Harry asked.

"It's an old legend," Edgar said, stepping in. "That the gods had a great war, in which they bestowed upon us mortals magical powers. The Earth and sky cannot touch, and so they influenced the wizards and witches that walked the line between them to fight in their stead."

"Merlin and Morgana were their generals!" Amy piped in gleefully, and Harry had to smile at her energy.

"In more specific terms, light magic is about precision and control," Edgar continued. "It is why wizards wield wands, or staffs. They use the specific movements to control the magic and shape their power to their will.

"Dark magic is different. It is wild. To control it, one must abandon the perception of control, and give in to it. You control it like a live tiger, rather than a puppet."

"Like song music!" Amy burst in. "Mommy sang the most beautiful songs, and made wonderful magic with it!"

"Song music?" Harry asked, unsure if he had heard.

"Music is one way dark wizards control their magic. It allows them to channel the passion they need to direct their power. Some wizards use dance, some thread, some blood. I knew a witch who could work the most amazing magic with a knotted blade of grass."

"Let me show him, please?" Amy asked. Edgar nodded his head, a small smile gracing his lips.

"Go on then," he said. "Show off."

Amy stuck her tongue out at her father. "Old goat!"

Edgar was still chuckling as Amy pushed aside her mug.

And sang.

It was beautiful. It was powerful. Harry felt the dark magic inside of him rise up like a snake being charmed by it's master. Amy met his eyes, and he started when he realized that the youngster's eyes had turned entirely gold.

She smiled through the music and flipped her gaze down to the center of the table. As Harry watched, a plant sprouted. It began to grow impossibly quickly, rising up and sprouting leaves and a flower bud. It opened, revealing a small flock of sparkling butterflies.

As the music ended, the entire thing vanished into a haze of sparkling gold and purple.

"Wow," Harry breathed. He looked up at Amy, who was smiling smugly. "Where did you learn how to do that?"

"Mom taught me," she said. Edgar put his hand on her shoulder.

"My wife died a year ago, but she kept a journal of her music and her spellwork, and I've been helping Amy. Most dark wizards or witches will gravitate towards one kind of magic or another as they develop their powers."

"You're a late bloomer!" Amy said happily. "But it's okay – everyone comes into their power when they come into it. It doesn't make you more or less powerful. Though Daddy can sense your power, so you must be pretty strong."

Harry started and looked at Edgar for confirmation.

"I could feel your dark magic reaching out to me the second you came into this shop," he said.

Not knowing how to react to that, Harry simply nodded again.

"So Knockturn Alley is mostly nocturnal, right?" Harry asked, trying to fill the silence.

"Yes," Edgar said. "The Watch come out at sunset, and they keep an eye out for anything truly heinous, like dark wizards going at it, or killing each other in a shady corner. Anything over that would bring the Aurors down on us is stopped. Light wizards are steered purposefully out of the Alley."

"This place is amazing," Harry said. He could feel it even in here, the thrumming of life and magic outside. It was like a heartbeat, like a song. So fragile, and yet invincible: it was ancient but at the same time it was vital. It was as old as the world, and as new as a baby's first breath.

"It is, isn't it?" Edgar asked, a smile cracking his lined face.

The three sat in silence.

"The heartbeat," Harry began after several long minutes. "What is it?"

"Its magic," Amy said, wonder filling her eyes. "Can you hear it? Feel it in your bones?"

Harry chuckled.

"You could say that," he said. He looked up at Edgar. "How come light magic doesn't feel like this?"

"Light magic doesn't have the same soul that dark magic does," Edgar said. "If you compare light magic to say… blacksmithing, dark magic would be like Herbology in comparison. It's alive, its random, and you don't always get the results you want, the way you want. You can make a thousand swords out of the same mold, but every plant you grow will be unique, even if you're growing a field of the very same plants under the same conditions."

"I think I understand," Harry said, smiling back at the older man.

They sat in silence a little while longer before the bell at the front of the shop rang.

"Amy dear, can you get this one?" Edgar asked. Amy nodded and skipped out the door and into the shop.

"I am all too aware that not every dark wizard is willing to protect our own," Edgar said quietly, when his daughter had gone. Harry immediately caught the undertone in his words.

"I will make an oath on my magic if it would make you feel more comfortable," he replied.

"It would," Edgar said. "Its one thing helping out a youngster who comes wandering in here like a doe eyed child, trying to make sense of their power. It's quite another letting them leave and chance having the ministry show up at my door."

"Of course, if you can make an oath to me as well."

"What oath would you have me swear?"

"That neither you or your daughter is a Death Eater, or supports the mindless slaughter that Voldemort perpetuates."

Silence again.

"And if I were?"

Harry just smiled politely and shrugged. From what he had seen, he highly doubted that Edgar would be unable to make such an oath, just perhaps unwilling to give a teenage stranger some measure of control over the situation.

"Very well, I swear on my magic that I'm no Death Eater, and have no intention of becoming one," Edgar said.

"Thank you," Harry replied, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding since he found out Edgar's last name,

"Then I swear on my life and on my magic that I shall not reveal that you or your daughter are dark wizards, nor shall I disclose anything we have talked about tonight. Furthermore, I swear on my life and my magic that I shall protect both of you to the best of my ability should the ministry come to call on you because of your magic."

It was rash and impulsive, but the last, unasked for part of his oath felt right. It was rash and reckless and yet… and yet Harry was a Gryffindor. For him, the fact that it was the right thing to do was enough. These people weren't Death Eaters, and they weren't criminals. If the Ministry came after them, it would be wrong, and knowing that was enough for Harry to risk his very magic on an oath to protect them.

Once upon a time, the Sorting Hat had told Harry that he could be great in Slytherin. In his mind's eye, Harry saw the kind of man that he would have become if he had let the hat make that choice for him.

He saw a man who was powerful and strong, that all wizards and witches feared. He saw a man who never placed another above himself, who was cold and calculating, and acted precisely and always for his own gain.

That man scared Harry, because at ten years old, he had chosen what was right over the chance to gain power. He had chosen his friends over his ambition. At ten years old, he had looked into the future, and seen a man who did what was right and damn the consequences, just because it was the right thing to do.

Harry wanted to be a man that his ten-year-old self could be proud of. A dark Gryffindor. Who could have thought?

Edgar started a little when Harry made his oaths, but he settled quickly.

"That's all right then lad," he said. "I should go see how Amy's doing up front. People will begin coming in earnest soon, so you might want to make yourself scarce. Our kind get rather excited when we realize that we've won another one over from the light side."

Harry chuckled.

"Indeed," he answered, rising as well.

"That said, you can come by tomorrow or anytime for tea," Edgar said. "If you have any more questions."

"I'll do that then," Harry said, nodding. He wanted to learn as much as he could about dark magic, especially if there were no books available on it.

He left the bookstore and wandered the Alley for a few hours. None of the Watch gave him any trouble, and he grabbed a late dinner at one of the booths. It was some kind of Indian dish, fried dough with spicy vegetables inside.

Harry was instantly in love, and he went back for seconds, much to the amusement of the man running the booth.

He wandered the Alley some more. He spent some time looking around a store that sold magical jewelry and watches. Finding a watch that had an extra hand that would let you know when the homework you had planned to finish was done, Harry bought it, thinking fondly of Hermione. Her birthday was coming up soon, and Harry wanted to make sure he could send her a gift: ever since he had started Hogwarts, she had diligently sent him thoughtful gifts, and he had never had the chance to truly reciprocate.

He found an enchanted quill that would translate swear words into any language and got that for Ron, thinking he would get a laugh out of it. Neither object was expensive: it was just that both of them were rather esoteric, not the kind of thing most wizards or witches would think to buy.

Harry wandered around a pawn shop that had an incredible collection of moving statues that he eventually realized were all bits of chess sets.

Harry's first chess set had been a chance prize from a magical Christmas cracker, and seeing the potion stained, chipped, faded, and lonely pieces, he thought of his very first chess game on Christmas day. It was a warm up act for the much more dangerous game of chess he had been forced to play later that same year.

How long would it have taken Dumbledore to floo over to the ministry and then come back when he realized that he wasn't needed? Five minutes? Ten? McGonagall had told them that Dumbledore had been called away early in the evening.

How the hell was he not back before they had gone down the trapdoor? Was he that inept, or had be been waiting for the Trio to follow Voldemort down the trapdoor before he acted?

Harry felt a wave of clarity wash over him as he stood there among shelves and shelves of old chess players.

Dumbledore had played him. Harry didn't want to believe it: Dumbledore was like the grandfather he had never had, like the family that had been taken from him.

Harry granted that Dumbledore could never have suspected a Basilisk was hiding in the school, given that Harry had never mentioned hearing voices in his presence.

But his mind jumped to one of his earlier suspicions: Dumbledore had cast the Fidelius Charm for his parents. When James and Lilly had decided to switch secret keepers, Dumbledore would have had to modify the charm. He knew unequivocally that Sirius was innocent, and yet he let him rot in Azkaban.

Harry clenched his jaw as he reexamined his Hogwarts experiences with new eyes, and had to come to one conclusion.

Dumbledore had played him like a well-tuned fiddle. There were just too many questions and suspicions to pretend otherwise now.

"Oi, if you're not buying get the hell out of my shop!" A voice called.

"Real sweetheart aren't you?" Harry yelled back to cover the fact that there were tears in his eyes. He was crying for Sirius, who might have been saved, who might have raised Harry if Dumbledore had acted differently. His tears were for what could have been, for what should have been.

But all the tears in the world could change the fact that it hadn't happened. Sirius was dead, and there was nothing to be done about it. He was gone, and every 'could have' and 'should' tore Harry just a bit more inside.

He left the shop almost at a run, and tried to loose himself in the throngs. He avoided getting cornered by a gang of teenagers that seemed intent on picking his wallet and made his way back to the Tea Leaf, where he fell on his bed and let himself collapse, too exhausted for anything else.

He laid awake for a long time, listening to the sounds of the street outside. He felt the flow of magic streaming beyond the walls, and felt an answering call from his own magic.

Harry reached into himself now, examining the dark magic he had never seen before. If he closed his eyes, he could visualize it, a ball of magic inside of him. One half of the ball was gold, the other half a bright silver. The gold aspect of his magic was brighter and larger than the silver, though both were significant. They existed together together, respecting an unseen seam between them. They joined without mixing, coexisting.

Harry called up the dark magic, and opened his eyes to see a ball of gold light in his hand. He set it free, and let it float up to the ceiling. Just to see if he could, he conjured half a dozen more, and watched them float around the ceiling like balloons. They moved in concert, without a recognizable pattern, at least to Harry. They reminded him of a starry sky, points of light in the darkness above, like the skies above Hogwarts. He watched them move, not thinking of anything in particular.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of open fields and skies that shone with starlight.

….

**And that's a wrap! Thanks folks and don't forget to review!**

**~InK**

**((PS: This is 22 pages long, my longest chapter ever, including my Alex Rider fiction. How do you like them apples? ;D))**


	7. Heavy Costs

Chase the Sunrise – Heavy Costs

**Uh hi? Does anyone actually read this? If you do, sorry for the delay. Its been a wild couple of months. Updates for my Alex Rider series are coming soon. Anyway, you know the drill. Read, enjoy, review if you want. I'll be in the corner enjoying my leftover birthday cake, and listening to the Voldie-muse that is whispering in my ear.**

**Oh yeah! And I changed the name of this fiction. A History of Magic was appropriate when I thought this was going to be primarily a story about the Founders. But it's not really, not the way I've plotted it out. So this fiction is now Called Chase the Sunrise. Capische? **

**Anyway, sorry to hold you up. You want the fiction, not my rambling. Well, here you go. I give you… the Founders. **

**Enjoy. **

…**.**

Sophia was dying.

Salazar could feel it, as strongly as he could feel his own soul languishing here. She was his familiar; somehow through the days of cold and endless torture, they had become bonded, a rite even older than wands themselves. She was his best friend, the only person he loved unconditionally in the world. The only one who returned that love.

He could not let her die.

'_Leave this place,' _Salazar would tell her, again and again. It was the cold and the dark and the lack of hunting grounds that had caused his friend to become gaunt and pale. Like him.

'_I will not,' _Sophia replied each time with all the regality of a queen.

'_Why are you so stubborn?'_

'_The wisest of us cannot change fate.'_

'_THIS IS NOT FATE!' _Salazar roared. He hissed incoherently, barring his teeth like a wild creature.

'_I ran rather than die when it was my time,' _Sophia answered haughtily. '_I answer that decision now. All things die, Salazar, that is a lesson you must learn. My time was extended far longer than most, but I too will pass away.'_

It was a discussion that ran around and around in circles. Both were too stubborn to back down, and the arguments continued for days. The nurses had stopped even bringing Salazar food, and he could feel himself weaken with every heavy breath.

'_Tell me about your wizard,' _Salazar said upon waking one day.

'_He was wise and powerful,' _Sophia said. Her voice sounded distant. _'We lived in the deserts, somewhere warm and sandy.'_

Salazar smiled, as Sophia sent him a mental image of the sun. As her body weakened, she seemed to grow in power, or perhaps it was simply their shared connection. He mentally basked in artificial heat, even as his body shivered with cold.

'_There were many people, tasting of many spices and smells,' _Sophia continued. _'He practiced magic openly, and was revered as a wise man. But that wasn't his home. He was born of the north, of frozen lakes and tall trees. They called him the Great Traveler, the Man Who Comes and Goes by Night.'_

'_Where was he from?' _

'_The west,' _Sophia said. _'It was many years ago, I doubt the place goes by the same name any longer. I remember one woman who hailed him as master of the Western Isle.' _

'_Why did he travel so far from his home?'_

'_He fought with a friend.'_

Salazar thought on that in silence for a long time.

It was raining, and he could hear thunder peal outside, and the rush of wind as it howled past the building. He shivered in the cold.

'_What made them fight?' _he asked.

'_In those days, sorcerers roamed the land freely, and powerful magicians were commonplace,' _Sophia said wistfully. _'Some took to the forests to worship gods of nature and the spirits they could feel all around them. And in the icy forests in winter, while I was not yet a hatchling, my wizard walked upon one of these rituals. He was displeased, and he destroyed the worship grounds.'_

'_Didn't the gods get angry?' _

'_The gods act in odd ways. They had chosen woman to speak as their voice on Earth. She tried to win over my wizard to her ways. But because innocent blood was spilt in her ritual, he was disgusted. He replied that sacrifice must be of one's own blood and flesh, of one's own toil and pain, or it means nothing. The witch who was his longtime friend cast him out of the land, using the power of her gods. But she angered them as well in this action, for they saw my wizard was wise, and she was unthinking. They cursed her.'_

'_Do you know what happened to her?'_

'_I do not.'_

'_What became of your wizard?'_

'_He returned to his isle eventually,' _Sophia said. Her voice was weary and tired now, as if speaking had drawn too much energy from her. '_I foresaw his doom in that land, but he did not listen. In the end, I begged him to leave me so I would not suffer his fate. I am a coward.'_

Sophia held her head up with dignity, however, and Salazar found only respect for her, even now.

Into the silence, Sophia spoke.

'_I felt him, in our last minutes,' _she said at last. _'I pushed him away, knowing what was to happen, not wishing to be there for the final blow, but he simply apologized. And then he died, while he was speaking to me. It was like being suddenly cut in half, or loosing a tooth.'_

'_You did the right thing,' _Salazar whispered.

Time passed slowly. Salazar listened for the two faint heartbeats in the silence of his cell. They told him that they were both still alive, still breathing.

_One-and. Two-and._

Always he waited for his familiar's heartbeat before he moved on.

_Thump-thump_. The air was damp. Salazar drew it into his lungs, his chest shuddering with the effort. His body was beginning to methodically shut down, closing itself off. He would die soon.

_Thump-thump._

Salazar could not even begin to draw on his anger to fuel him, to keep himself alive. He wanted to die. He had no way of surviving, so why fight? Why not slide gently into oblivion and darkness?

_Thump-_

A terrifying, heart wrenching second –

_Thump._

Salazar let out a breath he didn't even know he still had the will to take. He would live as long as his familiar did, keep breathing as long as she herself did so. She was his reason to keep hoping. Every breath was a promise made with Herculean effort, a pledge to believe in a better life that lay ahead.

And yet…

And yet he knew that he too was dying. And stubbornness only counted for so much. And he was scared. He was scared because he had never been brave. He blustered his way through life and tried to make the best of things, but he wasn't brave or strong, and death scared him. The idea of his own life fading out of existence light an extinguished lamp in the dark of night made him shiver even more than the cold.

It was downright, bloody terrifying.

'_Sophia, you awake?'_

'_I am… wizard.'_

'_What is it like? To die?'_

Sophia did not answer for a long time. Salazar was afraid he had slighted her, but eventually, she did speak.

'_It is scary,' _she said. _'But it is nothing.'_

'_Does it hurt?'_

Sophia paused, and Salazar had the strangest feeling that if snakes had eyes, she would be crying.

'_It hurts more than anything else in the world,' _she whispered. _'It's like having your guts ripped out, and your brain turned to mush. There is a horrible feeling of loss, and then there is nothing. It is peaceful, in the end. And for the one who dies, I don't think it hurts at all.'_

Salazar shivered.

He must have fallen into a light sleep while he was counting their heartbeats together, for he found himself shaking himself away sometime later.

He listened intently for sound, but all he could hear was the water dripping from the walls, and his own horrible heartbeat.

Sophia was limp and cold beside him.

And for the first time in his life, Salazar truly understood what bloodlust meant.

He felt like his guts were on fire, like he couldn't take a full breath. He raised his head to scream of injustice to the gods, but no sound formed. His throat closed, unable to find the words for his pain.

He breathed deeply, trying to will it away. The pain made him weak, it made him hurt too goddamn much. Worse than losing his father or being betrayed by his uncle, this hurt, this fucking hurt and he couldn't stand it!

He _would not_ stand for it.

'_Break,' _he hissed, his voice ice cold.

And the stone around him broke. It shattered like thin ice under a heavy blow.

Salazar was torn free of his restraints, and thrown against the ground. He heard screams, but he paid them no mind. He was bleeding, but there was no pain.

'_Open,_' the boy hissed, feeling his magic respond, and the wall next to him was blasted apart. This was glory and power! He would never be held helpless again, never! He would destroy those who thought to cage him!

_Him!_

He was noble child of the blood of Merlin, of the great and ancient sorcerers of old. And these filthy _animals _dare take him a prisoner?

Unacceptable.

_Unacceptable_!

They would pay for all the misery they had inflicted upon him. They would fucking _pay._

And for the first time in many long months, Salazar Slytherin breathed the fresh air, and knew what it meant to actually want to live.

Revenge, if nothing else, was a reason to keep breathing. To see his enemies blood spilled on the ground before him, to crush their bones beneath his hands. As the building's foundations shook and tore, a battle lust as old as time rose in his chest. His eyes flashed a bright, piercing gold, and he called upon the gods.

He didn't call upon any god of Byzantine name or origin. The gods he called to himself were ancient and forgotten gods of war, worshiped in the dead of night by blood sacrifice and chanting Druids. These gods were of the older, harsher and wilder world.

The sounds of war rang in his ears: the crash of ten million swords battle axes meeting shields, the crunch of bone, the cries of battle and death, the ring of metal on metal and the tramp of hooves.

His eyes did not see the building around him, but gazed without fear on the shedding of blood, the fall of bodies, and the flash of weapons and armor in the sun.

He cried, and his voice revived old calls to war that had not been sung to the earth in centuries. His throat was hoarse after so much time in disuse, but it did not matter.

He stepped free of the wreckage, and turned to gaze coldly at the building where he was help captive. He held no sympathy for the inmates who had died there. They were better off.

'_Fall,' _he said.

And the building fell.

A last, horrified scream was heard from within, and then nothing could be heard from within.

The ground shook one last time, and Salazar felt the magic return to him, along with his senses. He shivered as he felt the frigid rain pounding down around him. The rage had left as suddenly as it had come, and now he just felt cold and empty.

Salazar stared at the wreckage of the building. He saw spirits converge on the fallen building, seeming to tear formless shapes from the stones.

_The dead_, Salazar realized, without guilt. He was watching the spirits of the dead being ferried to the next world.

All of the sudden, the world rushed at him, and his vision blurred. Salazar fought for breath, and he could hear a strange ringing tone in his ears. A moment later he was on his knees, unable to control the flow of air through his lungs, or keep his eyes open.

"Oh fuck," he murmured, and fainted dead away.

….

I wandered for many weeks, unsure as to where I was going. As I walked, I practiced magic. I made stones dance in the air beside me while I walked, and called fire, wind, and water to my will.

For that was what this was, my gift. I could move things with nothing more than my will, set things on fire and call animals to me. I made good use of these talents as I camped, making my journey easier. I shaped pots and utensils from the heavy clay by a river I crossed, and used magic to burn them like a kiln would. They were crude, but I immediately felt much more civilized having them with me. My pride was soothed somewhat by my ever growing competency.

One evening, I was boiling water by a stream. I had found some tealeaves, and had a sudden nostalgic craving for what had once been by favorite drink.

As I took a sip of the bitter, unsweetened drink, I thought of home.

_Not Mothers excellent tea, but then nothing might ever taste like that again, _I thought grimly. Thoughts of home and my family did not hurt so much. Months of living alone and traveling had forced my mind to other matters. Survival, and learning how to control my new gift were paramount concerns.

My grief was not.

I knew that it would be easy to drown myself in the pain, to just lie back and imagine drinking tea in the parlor with my parents, discussing politics. I could sit back and smell the tea before me, and the soft perfume of the rooms, along with the welcome smoky musk of the fireplaces that kept our castle warm in winter. I could loose myself in the flickering fire, the entrancing glow of the flames on my mother's skin, or as they danced across the page before me.

But I was stronger than that, and my memories would not rule me. I would survive, and I would find happiness. I could see no future for myself: I could divine no way that my situation could end well. And yet I was resolved: one day, I would grow up to be spectacularly happy, even if right now anything beyond grim survival seemed beyond my grasp.

When my tea was done, it had grown quite dark. I cleaned my pottery, and packed everything away neatly, like it truly mattered whether or not my crude dishes were battered. I smiled at the idea of using mother's fine china out here in the wilderness.

She might have actually killed me.

It was odd that the thought didn't bring a grimace of pain with it. I went to sleep smiling, thinking of good times past, and with laughter ringing in my ears, with the smell of tea firmly entrenched in my nose.

A few days later, I was traveling through a town, having magically fixed my clothes and bathed in a river, when I caught sight of my reflection in a silver pot.

For a moment, I was transfixed.

The woman who looked back at me was much older than I remembered being. Her eyes were harsh, like blue diamonds. Her dark, coppery hair was cut shorter than it had ever been, tied back in the current fashion of young men in the city. The aristocratic face and fight nose were hardened by weather and wind, and my skin had tanned greatly. I had lost the smooth curve my childish roundness had given my face, making my chin angular and defined.

I no longer looked like a child.

Furthermore, I had always looked like my mother. 'Rowena is her mothers spitting image', they always said. It was a matter of pride that I should be as lovely as my mother – who was the envy of any court woman I could name. My father's features were too hard, his stature too broad, and his hair too wild to be truly handsome… yes, there was dignity in the way he carried himself, and yes my parents did make a good couple, but there was no doubt as to who was the lovelier of the two.

And so when I would hear the court ladies whispering behind there hands that my smile, my hair, some other affect of my face or form belonged to the woman who bore me, I was proud. I looked like my mother.

Not so any longer.

The hard lines of my face called to mind my father more than my mother, and the heavy muscles I had begun to build while hunting and running across the land were beginning to mirror my father's broad shoulders and strong arms, rather than my mother's dainty form. I was vain enough to be rather disappointed.

I turned away before the merchant could attempt to interest me in buying the pot. I had need for nothing in this town. I just wanted to listen to the sounds of people talking around me, to watch their interactions. I had grown to miss company, but I was too shy, too ragged looking even with the aid of magic to start a conversation with the grown-ups here, and the children would hardly welcome me.

I wandered among the stalls, taking in the scent of baking bread and warm food. I was eating much better these days, but some foods I missed.

However, I immediately saw something that took my mind completely off of food.

Books.

There was a book merchant here.

My mind blanked out all other thoughts as I was drawn to the stall involuntarily. I swear, it must be a biological reflex in my family to love books as much as I do. My mother is the same, and my father too, for all that he can be as crude as a sailor sometimes. Visiting nobles joked that the three of us never looked more the family than when we were sitting in the living room, each of us curled up with our books.

I ran a hand reverently down the spine of one of the books, careful not to leave a stain. _Lancelot-Grail, _the title read. My heart skipped. I opened in, and to my delight, I found that it was written in French. It was a tale of king Arthur and his knights. The stories were gaining in popularity everywhere, and I loved them. The romance between Lancelot and Guinevere never failed to pull at my heart. This was the final volume. I couldn't help but feel my pulse race at the thought of how the stories would be resolved.

"Hey, get away from there!" The merchant had found me, and was yelling in French.

I wanted that book so badly. I had never wanted anything more in my young life. It was like a lifeline, like an anchor reminding me that all the world was not endless road and sickness and hunger. It was a tangible reminder of who I was – of what I was.

And in that instant, I understood something very profound about myself.

I could run all I wished. I could be a banished daughter of a disgraced, once-noble house, but I would never cease to carry the nobility of my blood.

I was of Ravenclaw. I read books as if they were my mother's milk, and I wore my wit like a diadem upon my brow.

"Please sir," I asked, in my most pitiful voice. "Couldn't I stay just for a while? I promise I won't get anything on the book. Please?"

The man towered over me, narrowing his eyes at me. I tried not to let my desperation show. I held the book in relaxed hands, trying not to clutch at it. I looked up with wide, innocent eyes, and did not let an iota of my need slid through.

It was a masterful performance. Johannes had once told me I had no career in the playhouse. I think his primary objection was not my abilities, but rather because in many circles, theatres were regarded as little better than whorehouses, and because he knew as well as I did what the Romans once did to women who stepped onstage in their performances.

This was acting in its prime though. The man's gaze softened just a little.

"Where are your parents?" he asked.

I scuffed the floor with one unshod foot. I had lost my shoes miles ago, and my feet were dirty and calloused from walking.

"They're dead," I said quietly, the words catching in my throat. The emotion was slightly overdone. I hadn't really cried all that often since losing my parents, and I was finding it easier to deal with the memories of my family. Recognizing that there was nothing I could do, I forced myself to keep moving, keep surviving. However, nothing said I couldn't tap into the feelings of pain from when it had been fresh in my mind in order to get what I wanted.

I really, really wanted to feel a book between my hands again.

The man hesitated briefly. I saw sensibility warring with emotion in his eyes. I managed a tear in one eye, and it trickled through the dirt there.

"Don't get any dirt on my books!" The merchant finally said, turning on his heel. "And don't bother my customers!"

The words were thrown over his shoulder as he stomped away. I smiled with relief, setting into a dark corner to read.

I stayed there the whole day, until it was dark. I cursed myself for not paying better attention to the time. In the twilight, I wandered around the city, hoping to find someplace where I could sleep safely, out of the elements.

I wandered through the dark alleys, trying to avoid the deeper shadows. I didn't want to call attention to myself.

"Hello lad," a voice said behind me. I heard the utterly common accent to his French, and stopped, not yet turning around.

"What do you want?" I shot back, my voice low.

"Just to give you a little welcoming gift," the boy said with a voice that was too nice. He put my teeth on edge, and I darted left just in time to avoid a blow he had intended to deliver to my head.

The boy growled with frustration, and I was forced to turn around to dart away from another blow.

The boy was tall and thin, maybe a few inches taller than me. I kicked him right between the legs. He cursed me, hands covering his family treasures. I turned to flee, and ran into another boy – probably an accomplice of the first.

Great.

The boy grabbed my arm tightly.

"Hey, let me go!" I shouted. Maybe someone would hear and come to my aid. Somewhere in my gut, I truly believed that nobody could walk by while some child was getting beaten.

The next feeling in my gut was that a fist impacting my solar plexus, driving the air from my lungs with a grunt. I fell to my knees as the boy released me, and kicked me in the ribs.

I cried out in pain as the first boy made it to his feet again. He slammed his foot into my side, and I curled into a ball, trying to protect myself. My ribs felt like they were on fire, and I couldn't draw in a full breath.

"Little bastard," the first one sneered. "Lets see how you like getting kicked in the nuts!"

Oh shit. I didn't want to know what a couple of thugs would do to a girl wandering on her own, but I wasn't going to find out.

I concentrated on my power, berating myself for not thinking of it. Both boys were thrown back against the walls, crying out with fear.

I pulled myself to my feet, groaning from the pain. Every little movement hurt like I had never imagined a body could hurt.

I stumbled a few steps forward, and heart one of the boys moan behind me. I ignored him, taking m staggering steps out of the alley.

It took me a few hours before I found a suitable place to hide and recover. Thus far in my travels, I had avoided spending much time in any one place… but this was France! I had reached one of the first real cities I had seen since home, and I wanted to explore.

And read.

Just thinking of all the books that must be in this city made my skin tingle, even as I gingerly settled down in my little hiding place. It was the attic of an old church, with a dilapidated roof and a floor that was almost completely rotted through. I didn't know if people still worshipped below, but it was clear that they didn't come up into the attic anymore. Just climbing up here had been a real pain, and I felt that some kind of award should have been given just for achieving the feat.

I hurt all over. I checked my ribs, gingerly pressing the areas that were in the most pain. I knew that they weren't broken, which was a small mercy, but I had no way to know if they were cracked or not. Not that it mattered, given that I had no way of treating them even if they were. At the very least, I knew that they would bruise spectacularly.

I found a thin blanket, and settled down to sleep. I looked up at the stars through the gaps in the wood above me, and smiled, despite the pain I was in.

The sky really was beautiful.

I think I fell asleep soon after that, because I found myself flying through the air, watching the stars go past. I could see all the stars stretched out before me, and I was in the middle of it all, seeing the earth get smaller and smaller.

The world was round.

I could only let my eyes bulge at the discovery.

The world was round.

Father was right.

I could see the turning of the earth, and all the planets and stars that surrounded it. I gasped at the sheer beauty of it all. I was seeing something no human eyes had ever laid eyes on.

I wish I had about a hundred more eyes in order to take in all in, but I allowed myself to relax as I hurled through space.

Slowly, the earth vanished behind me, and I was hurtling towards even more stars. I could only watch in awe.

The universe was so huge.

Earth was just a minute blip in an infinite field of light and beauty, a grain of sand on a never-ending beach. Beyond the stars, the darkness stretched on forever. I felt tears burn in my eyes at the beauty of it all, of the universe hanging in such perfect balance, it's systems moving around each other like a planetary waltz.

I settled on the surface of a distant moon, running soft blue sand through my hands. Impossible. This was so impossible.

I wondered if there was life out here. Somewhere beyond the stars, were there other beings? What were they like? What would their culture be like? Would they have a culture?

Would they even vaguely resemble humans, or the animals of Earth? Probably not. Would we have any way of communicating with them at all?

My mind was reeling with questions as I lay back in the sand and watched the universe float by.

Just as I was feeling perfectly content, I felt something that was extremely _wrong. _As I watched, a huge black rip appeared in space in front of me.

I immediately covered my ears, which were assaulted by an inhuman screeching. It burned in my eardrums, and I needed to get it out of my head!

The creature grinned at me, showing black fangs. It's entire being seemed to be made of nothing but shadows, with bright green eyes that glinted menacingly. It stepped out of the rip, and moved towards me, smiling. It let out another inhuman screech, and another creature appeared. And another, and another.

Each of they issued their own screech of triumph as they exited the rip. I stared at them, my heart racing with fear. What were they? What was happening?

And suddenly the rip was bursting. A hundred of the beings flew through the rip, screaming and screeching, their glowing green eyes fixed on me.

I yelled, stumbling backwards, and –

Woke up on the floor, breathing heavily. A ray of sun was looking me in the eye, and I groaned.

What had I just seen? It must have just been a dream arising from the stress of being attacked, and back in civilization.

I mean come on, a round Earth? An infinite universe? I chuckled to myself, wincing as the movement sent ripples of pain through my abdomen. Okay, no laughing today.

I frowned, remembering how real the dream had been. I had felt the texture of sand in my hands!

_It was just a dream, _I told myself. Just a stupid dream.

There were books to be had!

I carefully made my way down the building, moving as quickly and unobtrusively as I dared towards the main market. The book merchant glanced at me when he saw me, but said nothing. He did not bother me and I did not bother him. I lost track of my dreams of the strange shadows and the universe that went on forever. I gave myself over to the dream of another author for a little while.

The third day, he handed me a washcloth to clean my hands, to preserve his books.

The fourth day, there was a crust of fresh, warm bread and fruit waiting on a napkin. I devoured it freely.

I didn't see the boys again, and they didn't bother me. I eventually began exploring other places in the market, specifically keeping track of the stores with books, and the places where the merchants would kick me if they saw me.

I became good at begging. In the wild, I could hunt. Here in the city, unless I wanted to eat rat (and that was seriously my worst case option that I would resort to literally only when I was threatened with death by starvation), I needed to steal or buy food. My first few attempts at stealing had earned me beatings, so I learned to beg.

I learned how rotten food has to be before you can't eat it anymore. I got a nasty bug from an apple I picked off the ground. I spent two days puking in an alley, not wanting to spread sickness to my little hideaway.

City living was harder than being on the move. But I had a feeling that there was something important for me here, and so I wouldn't leave.

Besides, there were books here. I cannot express the comfort I received from the familiar action of turning pages and carrying a book in my hands. It had been far too long.

And so I stayed, despite it all.

I am a stupid, stupid fool.

…

Helga opened her eyes with incomprehension for the second time in a single day.

The room around her was warm, built of sturdy stone. There was a fireplace somewhere beyond her line of sight – she could tell from the way that the shadows cast upon the ceiling flickered.

She was lying down in a bed. It was reasonably comfortable, with thick, worn sheets in a pale yellow color.

_Where am I?_

Memories raced through her mind in a flash. Jamie, the blacksmiths apprentice, crawling towards her with his guts spilled across the floor. Her mother's shrieking and desperate voice, and those terrible, terrible green eyes. And what the village boys had done to her and her sister… Helga fought tears as she remembered how much it had hurt, how humiliated and _violated _she had been, and forced herself to think of what had happened after she had left the village.

She remembered a predatory smile with sharp, frightening teeth, and then darkness. A world of blackness and terror and –

Vampires. A vampire had found her. She was in danger, right now. She had to move, had to get out of this place right now.

Helga pushed herself into a sitting position, groaning with pain. She squeezed her eyes closed against the pain that washed over her.

"You really shouldn't do that," a foreign voice drawled from a corner of the room. Helga opened her eyes, dreading what she would find.

The vampire was leaning against the wall next to the fireplace, his expression utterly neutral. His eyes were flashing in the firelight. Helga met his gaze steadily, wondering how long he had been waiting for her to get up.

He smiled, showing off his pointed teeth. Helga shuddered, remembering the teeth that belonged to the monster that had killed her entire town. What had happened to it? Was it rampaging around the countryside, killing mercilessly?

So many were dead, and it was her fault.

"You should have let me die," Helga said finally. The vampire quirked an eyebrow.

"And why would I do that?" he asked.

"Why wouldn't you?" Helga shot back.

"Not my style," the vampire replied. His gaze was making Helga uncomfortable now.

"Do you have any comprehension of how powerful you are?" he asked.

"I'm a witch," Helga replied, and there was a haughtiness there that could have belonged to a noblewoman. She knew exactly how powerful she was. She was terrified of how powerful she was. It scared her more than anything, more than Jamie… The vampire shook his head, and the movement drew Helga's eyes again.

"That you are, my little badger."

Helga wrinkled her nose at the ridiculous endearment.

"You are a witch, but you have so much more potential," the vampire continued. "The very fact that you're here… well, it says it all, doesn't it?"

"Pans hooves, what are you talking about?" Helga demanded.

"Oh, I think you know as well as I," the vampire said, crossing the distance from the fireplace to her bed. "Necromancer."  
Helga felt her blood run cold.

"You're lying," she said, but her voice wavered a bit.

"Ah, so you haven't actually transported yourself to another realm, from which you have previously called creatures of death and destruction?" The vampire asked. "I can feel that power in you, you know. You're infused with it."

"Shut up!" Helga yelled. "Just shut up, alright? I don't want to be a necromancer or whatever the hell else you think I am. Just let me go!"

The vampire frowned. He leaned in close, giving Helga no room to move away.

"No," he said calmly.

"What the hell do you mean, no?" Helga demanded.  
"I mean that you are far too powerful for me to allow you to just pass me by, and therefore, you will remain where you are."  
The vampire inhaled deeply his eyes closed. From the back of his throat, he let loose a sound that was akin to pleasure.

"Delicious," he said, licking his lips.

"Stay the hell away from me," Helga jerked away when the vampire moved to stroke her hair. Rather than pursuing her, the vampire chuckled. The sound made her blood pound. It was lower than the children who had hurt her, but that made no difference. He was too close, and she couldn't let him hurt her, couldn't make herself open to being attacked again –

But he was already backing off, giving her some space. She gulped with relief.

"As you wish my little badger," he said. "Now, I assume you wish to know what happened to you?"  
Helga nodded mutely, grudgingly. She wasn't trusting herself to speak, and was still curled up on the bed as far away from the vampire as she could get. He scared her, and she wanted to be away from here.

"You had a heart attack," the vampire said casually. "Not uncommon in children who exceed their magical limits. Usually the reason is that some kind of trauma puts the patient into shock, before spiking your magic to dangerous levels. Hence the heart attack."

The vampire leaned against the wall, studying his nails. "Usually brought on by severe physical or emotional trauma. Prognosis: with treatment, a full recovery can be made. Without a skilled physician, the patient will suffer a severe and permanent case of being dead."

Here, he glanced up at the girl, who stared back blankly. The silence stretched on seemingly forever as the fire crackled in the background, and the girl's fierce eyes met the vampires amused ones.

"Speak," he said at last.

"Sit, roll over," Helga replied, face blank.

The vampire laughed heartily.

"Oh, I like you mortal!"

"Yeah? Well, I'm not all that crazy about you, vampire."

"Now, little badger, I think that you should address me by my name."

"I will if you will," Helga replied, drawing herself up. The vampire chuckled.

"I never had the chance to learn your name, little badger," he said.

"It's Helga," the girl said.

"And my name is Sargon," the vampire replied, bowing.

"Well Sargon, you've thankfully brought me back around to my original point," Helga said. "Why didn't you just let me die?"

"And let all your power be squandered?" Sargon asked, his mouth quirking in distaste. "I've already told you, that would be a sin."

Helga stared at the vampire, wondering if he was completely sane.

"How tragic," she drawled. "Because I intend on never touching those powers again. Ever."

Moving with incredible speed and strength, the vampire grabbed her by the throat and pinned her to the wall behind the bed.

"You will do as I tell you," the vampire hissed.

"Or what, you'll kill me?" Helga challenged, her brown eyes devoid of any warmth. "Go ahead then! Kill me! What are you waiting for?"

Sargon let go of her, a smirk quirking his lips in a way that was far more frightening than his anger.

"I'm sure you can be convinced," he said.

"Like you have anything I could possibly want," Helga muttered.

"Are you really so sure that you don't even want to hear my offer, miss Helga?"

The blonde girl looked up, her soft features morphing with confusion. Sargon sat down on the bed next to her, and looked into her eyes.

"If you will agree to become my apprentice until I deem you fully trained in the fields of necromancy, soul magic, and any other field you wish to learn, I will ensure that you are comfortably looked after, protected, and outfitted."

Helga snorted, looking away.

"In addition, if you swear not to attempt such magic before I deem you ready, I will aid you in an attempt to bring one soul of your own choosing back from the dead," Sargon continued.

Helga's head snapped up.

It was like a hand had wrapped around her heart and squeezed. Her pulse raced.

Was it possible? Could this vampire really help her raise her sister from the grave, or was he tricking her? Her eyes narrowed. Sargon _had _to be lying, because what he was offering was impossible.

"You can't bring people back from the dead," she snapped.

"I assure you child, I can," Sargon replied, smirking. "And I can teach you to as well."

Helga held his eyes for as long as she dared, trying to understand his motives. He didn't seem to be lying… but dare she trust?

Dare she do anything else?

Sargon was offering to teach her how to save her sister. She couldn't refuse him, because on the slim chance he was telling the truth, she _needed _to learn what he could teach her, no matter how much her power frightened her.

Helga felt a spark of hope and determination for the first time since waking up.

He sister wasn't gone. Not really. Not while she had it in her power to find a way to bring her back.

"What would you want from me as your apprentice?"

"Clever girl," Sargon said affectionately, ruffling her hair, ignoring Helga's wince at the contact. "I would ask that you follow my orders, answer my questions when I ask them, come to my lessons when I say so, and act as my apprentice at official functions which would involve serving my food, pouring drinks, that sort of thing. You will aid me in projects from time to time when I need more power, and you won't be able to hurt me or kill me. I will punish you for disobeying me, but we can discuss what is appropriate for what kind of offences before they are committed – I'm not interested in torturing you, and you won't learn your lesson if you think the punishment is unfair. Other than that, I'm sure we can discuss issues as they come up."

Helga ran this over in her mind. It sounded fair, but she was going to be sure about this. She thought about the wording for a long while, not willing to trust this vampire.

"I want time for myself, and privacy," she said. "And I want the right to define certain boundaries you can't cross."

Sargon raised an eyebrow.

"If you ever intentionally beat or physically hurt me for no reason, the deal's off, and you'll allow me to leave your service," Helga continued, mentally running down a list of things she wanted cleared up. "Same goes for if you ever restrain me. Oh, and I want a wand."

"Fine to all the above conditions except the second to last," Sargon replied evenly. "I'll restrain you magically if you are ever in danger of hurting yourself, or of unintentionally hurting another. If your magic ever gets out of your control, I'll render you unconscious until you can gain control."

Helga considered that, deemed it fair, and nodded.

"Then I, Helga Hufflepuff do swear myself into the apprenticeship of the vampire Sargon, so long as the discussed conditions are carried out," she said formally. Her mother had taught her about wizarding contracts, and she knew enough to be able to formally instigate the contract. "For so long as you keep faith with me, I shall keep faith with you."

"I, Sargon of the Natufian Clan do so swear to accept you as my apprentice, and to treat you as discussed."

Sargon held out his hand, waiting for the girl to take it.

Helga hesitated. She thought of being thrown to the ground, her arm stepped on so that her wand rolled away into the dust and being –

She took his hand.

Sargon grinned, showing pointed fangs.

"So it is sworn," Helga said, jerking her hand back out of the man's grip.

"Well, little badger, welcome to apprenticehood," he said.

_Damn it, I should have made it a stipulation that he couldn't call me that, _Helga swore. And then she noticed that he was still smiling at her, and stood up to get away from him.

Pain tingled through her legs and body as she did so, but it was worth it. Sargon's smile was too familiar. She could see it repeated over dozens of young, vicious faces as they hurt her and killed her sister, her precious sister.

She shivered, though it wasn't cold. A hand on her shoulder made her flinch.

"I know you are not fully physically well," Sargon said, withdrawing his hand gently. "But I also know there is more damage than what was done to your body," Sargon said.

Helga shuddered again as a wave of images threatened to send her to her knees. Now that she no longer had the diversion of verbally sparring with Sargon, her memories were rising to the surface.

Without warning, she vomited all over the floor. Sargon vanished it with a careless wave of his hand.

"How old are you?" Sargon asked, handing her a conjured towel to wipe the vomit off her chin, Somehow, he understood that contact wasn't what the girl needed.

"I'm eleven," she said, not noticing Sargon's eyebrows rise. He handed her a glass of water and took the towel from her when she was done.

Gratefully, she drank the water. Too late, she noticed the bitter taste within it. She made a face, but a sudden dizziness overcame her.

"What-?"

"You still need to heal little badger," Sargon said, gently picking her up and placing her in bed.

Irrational fear pounded at her heart like a drum. She was helpless, and Sargon could do anything to her. He could hurt her and she would be unable to fight back. She struggled weakly, desperately.

"Shhh, child," Sargon said soothingly. "I won't hurt you."

Before she could protest, she was asleep.

…..

Time passed in a blur for Godric. Still immobile, he was carried further into the room. Cages lined the walls in which people were being contained.

Wizards and witches, Godric knew.

His gut twisted in righteous anger. How dare these people try and sell anyone? This was wrong. This was so wrong that it defied any kind of description.

Traitors.

That word ran through Godric's mind again and again.

These people were traitors to wizard and human kind, the lot of them. If he had use of his voice, he would have howled the word from the rooftops, screamed it at the very top of his lungs.

These bastards were traitors, and they would pay.

Hellfire and damnation, would they pay.

Romulous unceremoniously tossed Godric into an empty cage, closing and locking the door behind him. Godric felt mobility return to his limbs, but as he rushed to the bars and tried to yell at Romulous, he found that his voice was still stolen. The man smirked at the imprisoned child.

Godric glared back, but he stalked to the back corner of the cage and curled up, trying to block out the world. If he couldn't see it, it wasn't happening.

This couldn't be happening.

And yet it was.

There was a haze of confusion, of being poked and prodded at and several spells being cast over him. The cage seemed to have been soundproofed, and Godric heard nothing of the discussions that were spoken right next to him, or the spells used to examine him (at least, he assumed that that was their aim).

Godric had no defense against this. The cage was too small to avoid it, and he was trapped. He felt like a wild animal, pinned down and chained.

Maybe that's what he was. Maybe after the long days of confinement, after having his magic locked away for so long, he had ceased to think in a way that was even remotely human.

Godric knew his father would beat him if he saw the boy demonstrating so much fear.

_Gryffindors are noble and strong, and you are not, _the Lord of Gryffindor would say, his voice deep and disappointed in his only son.

Godric clenched his fists at the thought.

_I am a Gryffindor, _he thought angrily. _Our blood is as strong in me as it is in you, father. I'll prove it. _

_I'm not afraid of anything, father, and that includes you._

And yet the words did not stop the fear from coming. Cold, cruel eyes stared down at him from every direction, valuing him like a slab of meet, and he shivered where he sat. They sneered and leered and their mouths moved in grotesque fashions, but Godric had no idea what they were saying. He bowed his head and shut his eyes. He had fought tooth and nail, and here, at the end of his journey, he had nothing left within him to fight. There was naught left to do but pray to the gods.

And so he prayed. He prayed with the devotion that only a child can truly muster, a faith that was earnest and desperate.

_Dear gods, if you can hear my plea, help me. Please. _

Godric's prayers weren't answered however. He saw Vane grin at him through the bars of his cage, and then the man waved his hand, and the boy collapsed, out cold.

Godric came to somewhere dark and cold. His hands were unbound, but he could feel a cold and heavy weight around his neck.It was too heavy to be the collar Vance and his crew had used to subdue him, which meant that he was in the grasp of a new enemy.

Godric tried using his powers, to no avail. This collar blocked his magic as efficiently as the last.

Trying to fight sudden panic, Godric looked around. He was lying on a lavish bed in a room that could only be described as extravagant. It was fancier than any room Godric had ever slept in, that was for sure. The bed was a four poster, with bright purple silk. The pillows were soft, filled with some kind of down, and the room itself looked very comfortable.

Immediately, Godric's teeth were set on edge by the whole thing. He'd been sold as a slave. He should have woken up in a work camp, right?

Unless he'd been bought for… other… reasons. Godric shuddered.

Uh, no. Just no. He wasn't going to let his mind go down that path. More likely than anything, some random lord thought it might be interesting to have a magician as a pet. That seemed more the thing.

Having that mentally sorted, Godric sat up. Nobody was around. This would be an excellent time to try and make his escape. He could worry about the collar when he was free.

The boy didn't make it past the door, however. He managed to pull open the unlocked door, but when he tried to run through the doorway, he was repelled by a light shock.

_What the heck?_

Godric stared at the empty doorway for a moment, confused, before trying to pass through it again.

Again he was thrown back.

It looked like he wasn't going to be going anywhere. Godric fought the urge to pout as he heard footsteps coming from beyond his line of vision.

A moment later, a man stepped through the doorway, looking down at Godric with interest.

"Ah, good, I was hoping you would be awake," the man said. "Are you hungry?"

Godric opened his mouth to reply that the man could shove his question where the sun didn't shine, but no sound came out.

Angrily, he tried again. It was the strangest thing: he could feel his throat working, could feel all the muscles involved with speech doing their jobs, but there was no sound.

"Oh, that's right," the man said. "There's a silencing charm on your collar, along with the spells to suppress your magic."

Godric closed his mouth and glared at the man angrily. He gestured with one hand to his throat.

"Charm stays on," the man said. "There's food coming for you right now, but perhaps you would like to sit down for a moment while I explain some things to you."

Godric clenched his hands into fists, but listened, because he really didn't have any other choice.

"My name is Phillip IV of the house of Valois," the man said with an arrogant smile. "And I am going to be king of France."

Godric forgot to glare, and just stared at the man. Wasn't that kind of talk technically treason?

"Ah yes yes, I know, there is currently a king of France, but you see, I don't care," Phillip said. Godric shrank away from him as he leaned forward. "His throne will be mine, and you, wizard, will help me."

Was this man insane? No way! No way in hell!

Godric shook his head fervently.

"I think perhaps I should explain about that collar around your neck," Phillip said dryly. "You will only ever be able to use your powers when and where I wish. It will prevent you from speaking if I do not wish to hear you. And if you disobey me, I need not lay a single hand on you, because that collar will punish you for me."

What?

Godric shook his head again, shutting his eyes.

"Pity," Phillip said, and pain erupted throughout Godrics' body.

If he had use of his voice, Godric would have screamed. As it was, his throat strained, trying to release his cries of agony, even as he writhed in silence.

His mind was completely blank of anything except the pain. It was burning him, consuming him, and he was going to die!

And then it was gone. Godric was left panting heavily, trying to catch his breath. Phillip was watching him with a pleased expression.

"Now, what do you say to helping me gain a throne?" Phillip asked.

Godric looked up, and smiled.

It was a smile full of cold rage and fire.

And then he laughed. It was soundless, but his entire body shook with mirth. Phillip frowned as Godric fell on his side. The man really thought Godric would willingly help him? Uh huh. He'd help Phillip… when hell froze over.

He would not help this man depose a monarch. It wasn't right. And if Godric had had any lesson beaten into him by his father, it was that nothing mattered more than doing what was right.

Finally getting control of himself, the boy looked up at the would-be monarch, and raised his middle finger in a very definitive gesture.

"Very well," Phillip said, and the pain was back.

The entire world blanked out, and all Godric could feel was the pain. It wasn't any easier the second time around, and it lasted longer, but when the pain subsided, he just glared back at the man.

And for the first time in his life, Godric thanked his father for beating him. He had a high tolerance for pain, and it was difficult to force him to do anything he didn't want to do by hurting him.

So this bastard of Valois could go die in a hole, because he wasn't getting any help from Godric Gryffindor.

"You are a horrid stubborn boy," Phillip said, his voice resigned. "I am not a cruel man, wizard. I want to treat you well, but I need your help, and I will force you if that is what is required."

Godric met the mans gaze steadily. He wasn't a masochist. He didn't like pain.

But he'd rather face physical pain than the mental pain of betraying who he was. And he wasn't going to help someone commit treason. He was a noble, sworn to protect the king, even if he was just a kid!

Phillip sighed.

"I don't have time for this," he muttered. "Listen, wizard. Think about it. One of my maids will bring you food shortly. You're free to do anything you wish, but you will not be able to leave the room. There are books here…"

Godric made a face, and Phillip smiled thinly.

"Sorry, but I can't afford to let you roam around without supervision," he said, his face growing serious. "You're dangerous, wizard. Of that I have no doubt. And like other dangerous weapons, you must be kept safe when you aren't being used."

Godric blanched at the phrasing, but otherwise, remained still. Inside, he was raging. How dare this man compare him to a mere object? He was much more than a sword or a bow. He was a wizard. He was a Gryffindor.

He would find some way to escape. He'd get out of here the first chance he had. Godric watched Phillip stand and leave, eyes dark with thoughts of revenge. As soon as the nobleman was gone, Godric collapsed on the bed again.

Yeah, getting out of here sounded great, but he had another problem. This guy was trying to depose a king.

Godric couldn't just let that happen. He might be a kid, but he was a wizard. And Phillip IV had one thing right: he was dangerous.

The man who coveted the throne was going to find out just how dangerous a Gryffindor and a wizard could be, firsthand. Godric would find some way to unravel the man's plots, and thwart them.

And _then _he would go home.

Godric nodded to himself, relaxing somewhat as his fear began to dissipate. He wasn't a pawn or an object. If he was a weapon, it was one that he - and only he – would ever wield. He would brace himself and face whatever came at him, because _he could handle it. _He was strong enough.

_I survived this far, didn't I? _Godric asked himself. _Barely, but I survived. _

He would see justice done, even if it meant being hurt by Phillips stupid collar a hundred times or more. Pain was momentary. It was passing.

Justice was eternal. And Godric would see it done.

Heck, he might even get a knighthood for it.

Godric didn't stop smiling until late in the evening.

That's when Phillip came to visit him a second time.

…..

**Eighteen pages, and close to ten thousand words. Wow. That's long. Really long.**

**So be a dear and review? The Voldie muse needs food, and he takes either the souls of innocent children, or reviews. And I've already given him the Founders, and I don't really know what else to do. So you guys should step it up, yeah? ;D**

**Much love,**

**~InK**


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